Too Much To Pretend
by Mirwalker
Summary: Second Season backstory woven around episodes "Coup d'Etat" and "Michael." Insights on Keller's arrival, Lorne's life, McKay's Ancient technology find and Beckett's new creation. A few profanities. Lorne/OMC.
1. Prologue & Day One

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**AUTHOR NOTES:**

This story is set late in Atlantis' second season, beginning during late June 2006 (episode 2.17, _Coup d'Etat_).

Thanks to ShaViva (fanfiction dot net/u/1555188/ShaViva) for an incredibly helpful beta on the initial draft of this story (chapters 1-12, and parts of 15-18). The revised and expanded story is so much stronger for her sharp eye; remaining issues are all mine.

In addition to references to on-screen episodes and other details, I have also provided two types of "extras" with this story as footnotes:

1. PLAYLIST notes should provide enough information for you locate the referenced song (at iTunes, Amazon or other music provider sites) to hear samples or to purchase the tune I had in mind for the particular scene.

2. MAP notes indicate a little extra information about referenced locations, all of which and more are marked on a public Google map. If you're interested in seeing some sites where the story is set, add the following URL string to the Google homepage: [slash] maps [slash] ms?&msa=0&msid=109487193454716104055.00045e9b5043b6e47422c Sorry, GooglePegasus is not yet available; so Earth locales only!

As always, I welcome your constructive feedback on this and all my stories; reviews = writer food.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

It wasn't often that the Atlantis Expedition leader was able to greet newcomers in person; but with both the current tensions of the Genii coup and a missing off-world team beyond her immediate control, she relished this too rare chance for happy responsibilities. As was each of the two hundred odd Earthlings already on Lantea, the new civilian arrivals were some of the best people in their fields, handpicked by her, with IOA approval. She would be supervising their work and getting to know them all in the coming months. And for all the advances and victories sure to come, there undoubtedly remained great risk in the Pegasus Galaxy, known and yet to be known. Through it all, they were her people; and so for all those reasons, she looked forward to connecting face-to-face with this new group of cares and colleagues.

She smiled with genuine anticipation as the duty communications technician passed along word from the _Daedalus_ that the cohort was ready to beam down. Exiting her office almost before finishing her "thank you," she quickly joined one of the logistics specialists on the bottom step of the Gateroom's grand staircase. "Good afternoon, Sergeant Gonzales."

"Buenas tardes, Dr Weir. Fourteen greenies today," confirmed the airman, looking up from his clipboard.

"We were all 'green' once, Sergeant," he was reminded, as the familiar tone and flash of the Asgard transport technology played before them. "I'm sure they'll be fine."

On the previously empty platform, fourteen grey- and khaki-clad figures appeared, blinking and looking about as the visible energy around them dissipated. A stubbled, red-haired man with glasses in the back of the group immediately doubled over and vomited into a flight sickness bag he'd apparently prepared for exactly that possibility.

The sergeant shot Weir a smug look, as the recovering man mumbled apologies while most of the party tried not to look too disgusted or even aware, likely for the benefit of their new boss.

A young woman wearing a ponytail and medical colors glanced nervously back at him, apparently not sure whether to assist or to allow him his recovering dignity.

Noting, but not focusing on the increasingly less green man, Weir gave her now standard speech: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Atlantis. I'm Dr Elizabeth Weir, the Expedition director; and I'm very glad to have you join us, adding your impressive research, technical and other skills to our efforts to better understand the Pegasus Galaxy, and by extension, our own. I know you've had an extensive orientation to our mission, protocols and personnel during your time on the _Daedalus_; but I also know that actually being here, in an alien city, on another planet, in another galaxy, can be very overwhelming in its own way."

Many of the civilians continued to gaze around them as if to prove her point.

"It's an amazing universe; and we're glad you can join us in this corner of it. To continue your introduction, Sergeant Gonzales here will be taking you on a brief tour while your gear is being delivered with the other cargo. He'll show you to your quarters; we'll give you a little time to settle in and then I hope you'll join us for our traditional transition dinner in the Dining Hall this evening."

She stepped down onto the platform to emphasize her connection to them; and Gonzales took his cue to head toward one of the side corridors. "I look forward to working with each of you. Welcome again." Stepping up to the wide-eyed woman closest to her, Weir put out her hand and smiled all the more brightly, "Dr. Keller, isn't it? I know Dr Beckett is looking forward to having another set of able hands in the Infirmary. Welcome."

"This place is amazing." The woman alternated between smiling politely and gaping silently, before finally taking Weir's cue to step aside and follow the Sergeant.

Turning to the next person, Weir continued the personal introductions, correctly naming and noting some particular knowledge of the work or home of each. They quickly formed a single file line leading to her, and then heading off to the side corridor where Gonzales was waiting.

Finally, the last new member stepped forward, with a slight hesitation and flushed cheeks that complemented and stood out all the more against his wavy auburn hair and short beard.

"Dr Royce?" she asked, the unspoken question 'are you alright?' clear in her tone and expression.

"Dr Weir, please call me 'Max,'" the man responded affably, and with more confidence than might be expected from someone whose first act in a new job was to lose his lunch in front of the new boss. "I suppose my sensitive stomach continues to precede me," he smiled warmly and put his hand out, making a point to show that it was clean and that the offending bag was tucked behind him. "I am very sorry; seems tazers aren't the only 'energized experiences' I react badly to."

"Budapest," she laughed, as he broached the incident that she hadn't intended to bring up, at least not so quickly in their professional reunion. "I can still remember trying to decide whether to help you or clean off the Secretary General. Did the Embassy security ever apologize for tazing you by mistake?"

"Not exactly. But the story did make the rounds at State; and I'm sure I got a number of other assignments out of sheer morbid curiosity."

"Well, I assure you that your professional skills, not your party tricks, are what got you the invitation here. In fact, I hope we can keep the…," she searched for the best term.

"Technicolor yawns?" he offered tongue-in-cheek.

"…to a minimum," Weir nodded with a smile.

With another slight blush behind his spectacles, Royce reassured, "While I'm still apologizing to the Chief of the _Daedalus_ for her decking, the good news is that it seems I am getting somewhat desensitized through repeated exposure."

She smiled warmly at his positive spin. "Well, it's good to know that if you get tazed again while you're here, you may not need the baggie; though it's also good to see you're prepared, just in case. We'll see what we can do to squeeze in some practice beams to get you past it; and I expect we'll need to get you started on Puddle Jumper and Gate travel, as I imagine our new sociolinguist will probably not want to get ill every time he leaves the City for field work."

"I'm looking forward to it," he smiled eagerly. "The work, that is."

In the background, they could hear Sgt. Gonzales calling the new arrivals down the corridor, telling them about the Gate and Control Rooms, and that in a moment they'd be stepping outside to see the scope of the city.

"I should catch up," he gestured in the direction of the tour.

Weir nodded as he stepped away, "It's good to see you again, Max; and I'm glad you decided to join us."

"Thanks for the opportunity." He nodded appreciatively, adjusted his backpack, and jogged down the hall.

Thinking ahead, Weir called after him, "You do have more of those bags on you? For the City transporters…?"

He turned back, reddened again sheepishly and patted a cargo pocket on his pants. Shrugging 'what-can-you-do?', he headed off again, leaving Weir to return to other messy issues she wished would clean up after themselves as nicely.

* * *

**DAY ONE**

The next morning, Royce was up early to say the Shema, the Jewish morning recitation to greet the day, and to see the dawn on the new world. On the flight in, he had scoured the City's diagrams for a good spot, and now stood on the edge of the east most pier, with nothing but ocean between him and the sunrise on this new life. He'd walked all the way across the City, both as his pre-run warm-up and rather than starting the day with a nauseating transporter hop. After making his mitzvah and breathing in the strangely soothing sea breeze, he turned on his mp3 player and started his morning jog along the outdoor circuit he'd also memorized en route.

As he ran along open piers and among the towers, he made a mental note to inquire about the safety of swimming in the lagoons; the water looked great, but who knew what currents and creatures lurked. The Bay he'd spent almost half his life alongside was similarly beautiful but also dangerous.

With only a few wrong turns and double-backs along the way, he eventually wound back to his point of origin, and started the loop again toward completing his five miles before breakfast, his first shift with live Pegasus languages, and hopefully a few spare moments to track down his unfinished business.

* * *

With the senior leadership preoccupied with some off-world crisis, the regular orientation schedule for the new arrivals had been postponed. So like the rest of her cohort, Jennifer Keller, M.D., had been tasked to the base Quartermaster to assist with resupply efforts—both to help that process, and to give them extra chances to learn the layout of the City and to meet other personnel. They'd spend the day unloading, unpacking, sorting and delivering incoming supplies; exchanging them for outgoing waste, recycling and samples; and gathering, consolidating, packaging and otherwise preparing all outgoing materials for return to Earth aboard the _Daedalus_. As a doctor, Keller had focused largely on medical and biological materials; and so she was in the Infirmary when the bodies from planet-177 arrived just before lunch. She recognized one name instantly, and thought immediately of someone else who'd want to know…

She found him in the dining hall; and not surprisingly he was laughing loudly with a group of soldiers, these new friends wearing German patches. She approached the table hesitantly, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling shyly as a much-anticipated punch line was clearly delivered.

"…die zwei auf dem großen Boot!" laughed Royce, leaning back and seeing the new doctor as the soldiers guffawed and slapped the table. Wiping his own eyes, he smiled broadly and switched languages to include her. "Doctor Keller, hello. Care to join us?"

"Uh, Guten Tag," she attempted, waving meekly to the crowd. "No; thank you. Max, can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure," he nodded, catching the clear concern in her demeanor. "Meine Herren," he nodded to his tablemates and picked up his tray.

Stepping out of the Dining Hall, Royce joined Keller who stopped anxiously by one of the decorative bubblers across the hallway.

"Jenn, are you okay?" he asked softly, following her nervous glances around the corridor.

She looked down, up and all around before finally taking a breath, looking him in the eye and blurting in a rapid stream, "I've been in and out of the Infirmary all morning, working resupply, and when I was just there… Well, I thought you'd want to know. Dr Beckett just received three… three bodies from off-world. They're doing a full battery of tests to make sure, of course. And even though we haven't known each other long, I still thought you might prefer to hear it from someone… from a friend, that is..."

"Breathe," he said slowly but firmly, taking her gently and reassuringly by the shoulders.

She inhaled and exhaled, before resuming at a slightly slower pace. "Max, it's the team led by the friend you mentioned on the _Daedalus_, Major Lorne. He… It appears that he was killed."

He stared at her like she was speaking incomprehensible gibberish—which up until that moment, she would have confidently wagered him to be fluent in.

Switching from friend to professional mode, she put her hand gently on his arm. "I'm so sorry, Max; I know you were looking forward to…"

"I want to see him," he stated firmly and calmly, despite the shudder that ran through him before he dropped his arms to his side.

She could see the tension in his shoulders and face, even as what little color he normally had drained away. _Denial, the need for direct proof of the loss_—she recognized too well the early stages of grief.

"Of course," she assured, stroking his arm in as much a show of comfort as their young friendship likely allowed. "We should go now; the alpha shift team will likely start on autopsies soon."

He remained standing perfectly still, nodding agreement, until she took his arm and steered them toward the nearest, nausea-free stairwell.

* * *

Leading Royce deep into the Infirmary labs, Keller grabbed two surgical masks and handed one to him. "There was a fire; it's pretty bad."

He ignored her offer, and stared blankly at three cloth-draped gurneys ahead of them.

Donning her own mask, she led him to the nearest form, and stepped around to the opposite side. His gaze was still locked at the head-end of the covered shape; and he continued to worry-rub the pendant around his neck. Empathizing with his urge to see for himself, she still cautioned him against the harsh reality, "Max, are you sure?"

"Please," he whispered through clenched teeth.

Gently, respectfully, she pulled back the blanket, revealing the charred figure and releasing a pulse of smoky scent.

Royce took in a long, haggard breath before dropping his head and letting out an equally long sigh. She saw his shoulders sag, as the wall between first and second stages of grief gave way.

Out of response habit as scripted as the grief, she repeated, "I'm sorry. I'm sure-"

"It's not him," Royce interrupted, the first hint of emotion in his voice.

_Still firmly in Stage One_, she corrected her assessment. Gently, as physician and friend, she explained, "Max, fires can cause significant changes…"

"That isn't Evan," he insisted, looking up at her with watery eyes, flushed cheeks and absolute confidence in his voice. But it seemed more in relief than denial. "I don't care what the uniform or dog tags say; check the dental or DNA—whatever you have to. You'll find this person isn't Evan Lorne."

He turned and walked briskly past Dr Beckett, who was himself rushing across the room.

Reaching the exam table, the Head of Medicine found, "Ah, Dr Keller. Good timing; I could use your help taking a second tissue sample from each body. The first round of genetic tests didn't match our missing team."

"What?" she asked, looking past him toward the long-gone linguist.

He repeated himself as he slipped on a pair of gloves. "I don't think these are our people; but I need to re-run the tests to be absolutely sure."

She considered excusing herself to go after the prescient doubter, but decided that having a firm answer would do him much more good than just a friendly face.

* * *

Less than half an hour later Keller stepped out of the Infirmary and turned toward the transporter. A movement in the opposite direction caught her eye; and she turned to find Royce perched on a bench just opposite the medical bay doors.

"You're still here? I was just coming to find you." She joined him, sharing, "You were right; they aren't our people. Dr Beckett is informing Dr Weir right now."

He was clearly less emotional than when he'd abruptly walked out; but he was still tense and still playing with his choker out of nervous energy.

"That's good news, right?" she stated, nudging him with her shoulder.

"Not for the families of whoever is in there," he reminded her, standing up and pacing slightly.

"And, that means that Vee— Major Lorne and his team are still out there somewhere, and whoever did that—" pointing toward the morgue lab, "is willing to go to great lengths to keep us from knowing where or how they actually are!"

Behind him, Keller saw Dr Weir and the two Pegasus Galaxy members of the military commander's team hurry into the Infirmary. She nodded Royce toward the doors closing behind them, and tried to reassure him. "I'll bet Dr Weir and Colonel Sheppard are doing everything that can be done to find them. At least we now know they're out there to be found. Right?" She tried to add a little hopeful cheer into her supposition.

Seeing her bright eyes and upbeat eyebrows, he finally dropped his hands from his hips, and weakly conceded the point. "I'm sure you're right. And he is scrappy…"

"There you go!" she encouraged, hopping up and shaking him a little, as he forced a smile to match hers.

"But," his face dropped again.

"But?"

He glanced back at the Infirmary, and thought aloud, "Well, no matter who they are, the people in there deserve some send off, some last respects. We should get the chaplain."

"Chaplain?"

"I wasn't surprised to find there'd be no rabbi; but a military detachment this size surely has some kind of chaplain; no?"

Her face gave him the unwanted answer.

He threw his hands up in exaggerated exasperation, and turned toward the tower's main stairwell.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"To get my tallis—my prayer shawl. Someone should say a few words for the dead," he volunteered as she stared after him with a mix of surprise, disbelief and admiration. Beginning the climb to his quarters, he again clutched the metal pendant, adding, "And for those who still need to come home."

* * *

_Fall 2005_

"_Ba'adan mibinamet,"(1) Royce called after the group of students who'd kept him answering questions on the brief walk from the classroom to his Defense Language Institute office. He set down his bag, brimming with new translation drills that would be his evening's occupation, and snatched up the secured courier receipt from his desk as he did. "Good," he thought as he filed the confidential form in the fortified cabinet in the corner, "Dr Jackson should be pleased with the quick turnaround of the latest batch. That archaic Egyptian hasn't been spoken in eons; but it's his hurry to get the translations back so quickly…"_

_He thumbed on his teaching-quieted cellphone and glanced at the clock. He had just enough time to swing by the house for a quick bite to eat on the way to his next class at MIIS.(2)_

_As he thought about what lunch possibilities the fridge held, the phone buzzed with notice of three new voicemails. Checking the log, Max stopped in his tracks on seeing the unsettling sequence of caller IDs: NEL, Natalie, Natalie. All more than an hour old, NEL's was on one of the dummy trunk line numbers that came up from the Colorado Springs base; no point in trying to dial back. The two calls from Natalie were back to back, and only minutes after the first. _

_He tapped in his passcode as he closed the door. Lunch would wait._

_As the network announced the first message, he could sense the tension even before he heard the familiar voice, "Hey Prime, it's me. Damn, I was hoping to catch you between classes, but… Um, I've got a new assignment. A… situation's come up; and we're shipping out in under an hour. This one is really important, and it's also really far away. And, it's really high risk. I don't know when or… when I'll be back. Back in touch. I'm sorry."_

_The steady commotion in the background peaked, as the sound of a large rumbling something passed by. The voice continued, even more hurried and flustered, "I'm going to try to catch Nats too; please help her be strong." With a deep breath, the voice dropped to just above a whisper, "You know I'd like to say more, but… I'm not free to talk. I'll miss you… all while I'm gone. Max, I… I… so, so verily-"_

_Max's own breathing caught as the caller's did, both wishing there was more that could be said._

_The caller swallowed audibly and promised, "I'll send word as soon as I can." Another pause finally delivered one last, "Verily."_

"_To delete this message…," a different, overly happy voice broke in._

_Max listened to the message several times, before blowing his nose and dialing Natalie, not needing to hear her messages to know why she had called. He wasn't hungry now anyway._

* * *

**NOTES**

1. "See you later" in Farsi, the Persian language of modern Iran.

2. MAP: The Monterey Institute of International Studies, a private graduate school up the hill from the military-run United States Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California.


	2. Day Three

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY THREE**

For the next two mornings Royce again greeted the alien sunrise before interacting with anyone else. To his ritual quiet moment with the gathering day, he added a quiet prayer for missing colleagues. He had not traveled to another galaxy to sit the mourning shiva for his first week; but there was still no word about the missing team. Turning his thoughts and energies from the dark to a bright sunrise, he turned up his digital symphonies and again tried to run away his worries.

A few turns into the third lap on this third Lantean morning, he got the uneasy sense that he was being watched. When the next turn didn't shake the growing feeling, "watched" became "followed." Without changing his pace or route, he casually swung his arms across his chest a few times as if stretching, and in the same motion deftly tapped the power button on his armband player. With his workout soundtrack silenced, there was definitely another set of footfalls in the background, softly but clearly in time with his own. Anxiety increasing, he looked at occasional doors and alternative turns as he passed them; but he couldn't be sure whether the doors would open, or where they or the side paths would lead. _Better to stay with what I know._

Instead, just after the next turn from a sunlit avenue onto a shadowed lane between buildings, he threw himself silently into a side doorway, pulled out his earbuds, and slipped into a sparring stance: knees bent, weight forward, loose fists up and senses alert.

The footfalls continued for a moment, before slowing slightly as a very large figure strode past.

_Very large_, he thought. _Shite! _Still, it was only a matter of seconds before the stranger realized he was no longer the hunter; better to use the element of surprise while he had it. So, trusting that the morning sunlight would pour past him and into the face of the follower, Royce leapt out into the lane and shouted, "You there, identify yourself!"

The large shape stopped instantly, and growled unhappily as it slowly turned back toward him.

_Very large! _Potential directions and speeds of retreat flashed through his mind; none seemed adequate...

As he clicked off his unsatisfactory options, a voice right behind him barked, "Oy, civvie!"

Without thinking, Royce simultaneously crouched, raised his right hand in front of his face, turned and fired his clenched left fist toward a point about eighteen inches below the source of the flanking sound. Satisfied by the organic feel of the impact, he danced back from whatever he'd just struck, adrenaline and fists still high, and saw Evan Lorne crumple to the ground with a grunt and gasp.

"Vee?" he exclaimed with a mix of surprise and guilt, dropping his arms and his guard. But before he could step forward to help, he was grabbed from behind and lifted off the ground. His arms trapped at his sides, he slammed his heels into his captor's shins to no avail, then unsuccessfully tried to wrap his legs around them and throw his upper body weight forward to tip them both over. Finally, he whipped his head backward without warning, trying to connect with his captor above if not below the belt. Harmlessly striking only pillar-like legs and a tendril-covered chest, and not shifting their combined center of gravity a centimeter, he let loose an exasperated string of invectives in a number of tongues, their common meaning implicit in their context and fervor. In mid-outburst, he tried going suddenly limp, so as to slip out of the constrictor arms primed against his screaming struggle; but they simply tightened against the slack he provided. He was sure he heard chuckling.

Lorne had managed to get himself up on one knee, still holding his stomach, and looked up at the situation with something of a grin and grimace. "'non… let 'im… go…," he wheezed, waving his free arm downward—whether as instruction or breathing bellows was not clear.

The vices released Royce with a slight forward push, so that he landed a few feet from where the captor stood smiling at them both. Not taking his eyes off of or turning his back to the imposing figure, Royce moved cautiously toward Lorne and helped him stand. "Evan, are you OK? I'm so sorry. I…"

"…Haven't lost your left hook," said Lorne as his words and breathing gradually became less shallow.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a guy in strange surroundings," chided Royce, nervously looking the Major over as if he might have hurt him permanently.

"Not on someone who's been well taught, Major," said the other man with a continued smile, relaxed stance and sparkle in his eye. "He's pretty good for a scientist."

"I had a good teacher," Royce explained, mouthing "sorry" to that slowly standing soldier. Calming and his head clearing, he finally recognized the imposing figure as the large alien hunter. "And, I'll take that, and my spared life, as a compliment, Specialist Dex."

"Just 'Ronon.'"

"Ronon," Royce nodded.

Lorne stood upright for the first time, hands on his hips, and leaned back at the waist to stretch his sore stomach. As he came upright again, he was encased in a hug by his civilian friend, who rocked him back and forth fiercely. "It's good to see you too, Prime," the Major gasped, reciprocating the embrace.

"They told me you were dead," was whispered in his ear, with a breathlessness that matched his own.

"I'm sorry," Lorne offered, apologizing for much more than just the great exaggeration of his demise.

With another squeeze, the two men separated just enough to rest their foreheads together, broad and comfortable smiles spreading on their faces.

Ronon was further impressed that the new scientist already knew the traditional Athosian greeting, and pleased to see the Major's favorable description of this longtime friend was not just another Terran nicety.

Keeping an arm around the redhead's shoulders, Lorne turned and introduced them formally, "Max Royce meet Ronon Dex. Ronon Dex, Max Royce." Nods were again exchanged.

"How the hell did you find me to follow?" asked the scientist, jostling his friend as if to shake an answer out of him.

"Well, I knew you'd go for a morning run. So I swung by the Control Room and checked sensors for a lifesign or locator signal moving around in circles by itself." He bent back and then forward one last time, stretching out his sore midsection. Grinning, he admitted, "And, this is the same course I picked out for my runs too… Shall we continue?"

Royce eyed the stretching soldier, as if confirming he was OK to continue, and got a subtle "I'm fine" nod before they all resumed the interrupted exercise.

At first, the larger Satedan was clearly making an effort not to outpace the two smaller men as they ran; but he made no complaint, and remained a few paces ahead. For a while, no one spoke: Royce letting Lorne focus on breathing and running; Lorne doing so.

When it was clear the Air Force officer was recovered, and so as not to suggest otherwise through further silence, the civilian asked, "So what exactly happened on this last mission? I asked around for you at the transition dinner first night; but all I got was vague descriptions from other civilians that something big was up, and a rebuke from one of the Marine officers to mind my own business. And as of the day before yesterday, you weren't burned alive, just MIA and in clear danger."

"Well, short version?" panned Lorne matter-of-factly. "One group of baddies kidnapped me and my team, faked our deaths and then released us late last night as part of a nuclear-powered coup shakeup among them."

"What?" gasped Royce, stopping in his tracks.

While Dex continued on, Lorne turned and jogged back, nudging Max by the arm to keep going. "Don't get your vowels in a diphthong; it's not as bad for me as it sounds." Evan smiled smugly at having shocked the scientist so easily, while Max's eyebrows gradually eased back down his forehead. "I'm sorry you were worried," the pilot added sincerely, stepping behind and gently pushing the linguist back into motion.

They jogged in silence for a little while, never really catching up to the longer-gaited Satedan, who had apparently decided not to wait on them.

Eventually, Evan broke the silence. "You know, not that I'm complaining at getting to see you this morning, but civilians typically don't come out to these areas; while we have installed a number of security cameras and motion sensors, much of the outer City hasn't been fully explored and secured yet."

"I didn't come out here for its popularity, flyboy—though I might have guessed we'd pick the same jogging circuit. Besides, no part of our orientation contained specific instructions about what _exterior_ areas were off-limits. I guess I'll just count myself lucky to have received a personal military escort," he grinned.

"You know that I'm not out here in an official capacity. I knew you were coming on the _Daedalus_, heard that you'd arrived while I was… off-world, and so wanted to come see you and say 'Hi.'"

"Hello," obliged Max blandly—not taking the apparent opportunity to affirm the reunion more deeply, before smiling again. "Not that I mind the company, but I do like the lack of crowds; so all the better more folks don't move out this way—less traffic and noise."

"All the better to hear your workout mix, huh? You know you're still the only person I know who listens to classical music on his runs…," Evan observed, shaking his head in well-rehearsed disbelief.

"Active body, calm mind," Max reminded. "And I'll spend all day with chattering voices and the lyrics of people's lives; instrumentals aren't work. That will come soon enough…"

With a fourth lap and fifth mile completed, they soon found themselves back at the nearest tower base, and began stretching out. As he trotted up from the direction they'd just come, it was clear Dex hadn't even broken a sweat, despite the fact that he'd nearly lapped them out of sheer boredom with their pace.

Lorne handed him a water bottle and turned back to Royce, "I have a debriefing and report to write from the mission, then I could use some sleep; but I thought we might catch lunch?"

"I have division meetings all morning, a delayed welcome lunch with the sciences leadership; but then have the afternoon to finish setting up my lab."

"OK, I'm technically on recovery for the rest of the day, so whatever works best for you. How about dinner?"

Royce glanced over as if confirming Dex's presence, before finally saying pleasantly, "Alright. Come by the lab when you're hungry. We definitely have some things to discuss, Major." His tone shifted from friendly to icy very quickly; even the Pegasus Galaxy native knew he meant more than the morning's ambush.

But the linguist quickly regained his warm affect, stood and turned to their companion, "Ronon, again nice to meet you. And hope I didn't hurt you too badly when breaking free…" He grinned largely, in proportion to the exaggeration.

Dex smiled back at him, "Rematch anytime…"

Picking up his towel, Royce nodded a good-bye to the Major. "Get some sleep, Vee; you looked raggedy."

As the scientist headed back toward the central city, clearly taking the long, on foot route, Lorne stage whispered after him, "Good to see you too, Max."

Dex watched Lorne watch him go, choosing not to mention that his shins did ache a little. Instead, he observed, "No offense to your friend, who seems like a nice guy, but he really is Wraith pale; and his hair is red. Not quite like a Queen's, but almost."

"You have no idea…," assured Lorne, as he gathered his towel and water bottle, and started toward the nearest transporter.

* * *

Evan could hear the music even before he reached the newly-designated linguistics lab late that afternoon. The beat was strong, the melody upbeat, and the French lyrics echoed down the carpetless corridors, giving him the impression of entering some kind of Parisian art deco office park.

The new translation project had been assigned an office largely walled in glass that accented its large external windows. And the late afternoon light filled the small but open space, as the auburn-headed man literally bopped around the room, unpacking a rare sight in Atlantis: actual books. He was placing stacks of them onto shelves between newly installed dry erase boards mounted perpendicular to the windows, so as not to block them. It seemed Max still preferred to do his work using hardcopy references and handwritten notes. In fact, Atlantis itself aside, the only obvious technology in the room was a single widescreen monitor, a laptop, and the iPod docking station and speakers from which the dance song blared.

_Like a Parisian art deco disco library_, corrected Evan.

Max was so busy shelving that he didn't notice the audience leaning in the doorway, watching him dance, until the officer called out as the song ended, "Ophélie Winter, no? '_Saché'_?"

"_'Je cours_,'(1) actually," corrected the linguist, giving no indication that he was surprised by the new presence or his Name-That-Tune attempt.

"Has a nice beat; I can dance to it. I give it a 'neuf'," grinned Evan.

Max smiled despite himself, and looked over to see that the dark-haired man was beaming in smug satisfaction at his own funny, and was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a white tee under a deep green button-up shirt. Pretending not to notice the casual garb, he opened another bin of books, admitting only that, "I needed something energetic to assemble shelving and unpack to, especially after finally meeting my department head at lunch." His demeanor turned quite stern as he declared, "Kleinman was right; that McKay is an absolute ass. After watching him begin lunch with an appetizer of crying microbiologist, I wondered whether I could sit through the whole meal with him, much less work for him for any period of time."

Evan smiled at the not uncommon initial reaction to Atlantis' Head of Sciences, one he himself had shared in their first missions together a few months back. "True enough; but he does do amazing things with all the technology around here. And he can grow on you."

"So can flesh-eating bacteria," Max pointed out tersely.

"Touché."

Max nested a now empty container into a pile of others, and exhaled loudly as he looked around at the few remaining unopened ones. Glancing at Evan, he noticed the bulky backpack slung over his shoulder. "If you had a ball cap on backwards and a little more five o'clock shadow, I'd think the big man on campus had come to walk me to my next class."

Evan looked down at his ensemble and smiled, admitting, "I guess it is casual; but I wanted to be comfortable. Are you going to be OK in that?"

Max put his hands on his hips, not needing to see his standard issue science blue t-shirt, khaki cargo pants and a matching trim vest. "What exactly should I be dressed to do?"

"Before we eat, I have something I want to show you."

Max looked skeptical. "And the catch?"

Evan looked hurt, "What makes you think there's a catch?"

"There's always a catch with you, flyboy; you've got a backpack on, and you're holding a bandana…"

"Right. Well, I want it to be a surprise; and it's a bit of a walk since word is out that you're not too fond of the transporters."

Max's arms crossed in front of him, as his expression radiated displeasure tinged with resigned trust. "And the blindfold will make the journey better, how?"

* * *

The odd pair used the hand-on-arm walk to catch up on news from home—family, political, entertainment and sports updates. If any other inhabitants of Atlantis noticed the Major leading the blindfolded scientist through the halls and stairways, they gave no indication of curiosity or alarm.

_How often does Evan, or anyone else, do this, for it to be so unremarkable?_ Max wondered to himself.

After walking for what seemed like an eternity, Evan finally stopped them briefly; Max heard a set of doors open, and felt a rush of fresh air sweep over him. Breathing in deeply as a matter of seaside living habit, he let himself be guided out of the structure. Evan had, of course, tied the blindfold well enough that he could detect no change in lighting as he slowly stepped several meters through the doors. His hands were guided onto a railing; and then a firm hand was placed on his back in a clear 'stay here' instruction.

As Evan stepped away and busied himself with something in the background, Max enjoyed the slightly salty smell and tried to determine more specifically where he was. While he wasn't sure of his location in the City overall, he had a good sense of where he was relative to his starting point—they had walked for more than a quarter-hour from his lab, and from the sequence of turns, he knew he now faced in roughly the opposite direction from his lab windows. He also knew they were still quite high up based on the number of stair flights they had climbed, and the wave sounds he could hear below them in the distance.

Having heard a number of clicks and snaps back toward the door, he now heard the zip of the backpack and a few clinks and thumps as Evan obviously unpacked it. "Evan, what are you doing? The glass- and plastic-ware sounds are pretty self-explanatory; but beyond that, I know only that you intentionally avoided the sound of every other person on the way here, you've blindfolded me, you're wearing my favorite shirt, and I'd swear you were just fiddling with the door controls." He hoped the slight irritation was clear through the curiosity also in his voice.

Evan responded from a spot slightly closer than he had expected, causing him to jump slightly. "I'm just making sure nobody disturbs us."

He felt the hand again placed on his back, and the other took hold of the blindfold. "Close your eyes."

Max crossed his arms in front of him and chided, "I don't know what you think is going to happen tonight; but if I can't get that door open, kidnapping will be among the charges."

Without responding or further warning, Evan whipped the blindfold off; and Max gasped despite his intention to remain detached through the evening. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden stimuli, the world before him twinkled brilliantly. In the time it had taken them to walk to this vantage point, night had fallen across the Lantean ocean; in fact, it appeared to have fallen right into the water. Before him was an intensely glowing, crystalline city, whose edges seemed to stretch to the horizon, there to meet and blend with the starry night sky itself. It was as though the entire world before him blazed with star fire, and any one of the pinpoints of light before him could be some little world on which he gazed down from its heavens. Whether godly or humbling, it was a truly awe-some sight.

Unconsciously he stepped back, as if the view would somehow be less breathtaking from a few inches further away, and he found himself pressed against his apparent captor. Without giving any ground, Evan gently took hold of his shoulders—no restraint or pressure, just connection, and whispered, "Welcome to Atlantis, Max."

"Evan…," he protested unconvincingly.

Gazing over Max's shoulder, Evan explained as if he hadn't heard, "I was going to take you out in a Jumper, so you could see this from a better distance and altitude. But there's a big storm coming in; and I thought it safer and more enjoyable to watch that from here. Never mind that you like pilots much better than planes."

As Evan chuckled at his own in-joke and rested his chin on Max's shoulder, Max shook him off and turned from the view to face him accusingly, "The door?"

Evan stepped back and held his hands up plaintively, "I just want us able to talk openly, without worrying about being interrupted. Just honest conversation, nothing more." He dropped his hands and hung his head slightly, admitting, "But, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't also really good to see you, to have you here. In person."

Though he'd spent the afternoon steeling himself against the charms of his dinner partner, the admission and explanation held such a mix of sincerity, gratitude, humility and vulnerability that Max didn't know how to react. On some level he really wanted to grab Evan and shake him for setting up the whole awkward situation. Or to take his hand, and reassure him that he understood and appreciated the good intention. Or just to give in and hold him close because that always felt right. But none of those options was appropriate in this place and at this moment, even behind an apparently locked door, so he decided to fill his thoughts and hands instead. "Dinner?"

He turned toward the to-go feast Evan had set out on the balcony's bench, not waiting to see the surprise and disappointment flash over the delivery man's face. He sat down cross-legged on the ground, clearly placing a collection of dishes between him and the likely other space for Evan, and looked contentedly over the selections. Dipping a piece of pita into what he assumed was hummus, he looked up to Evan with an aren't-you-going-to-join-me look.

Knowing better than to challenge this detail, Evan sighed, pushed up his sleeves and half-reclined beside the spread. Handing Max a bottle of water, he cut to the chase as was their long-practiced style. "Max, I know you've been through the wringer the past couple of days; and I know we were both conscious of Ronon's presence this morning. But still, what's with the chilly reception?"

Handing him a sampler plate of the finger foods familiar and not, Max explained, "Well, let's see: Beyond the strange eyes and ears everywhere, you lured me down here tonight and have apparently locked me in; and that's after you shipped out to and then got me flown to _another_ _galaxy_ in the first place."

"Wait a sec," the accused sat up indignantly. "You think _I_ arranged for you to be invited to Atlantis?"

Max's look screamed, _Didn't you?_

"I'm flattered that you think I have that kind of pull, Dr Royce; and I'd say you flatter yourself to imagine you're that special, but…" Evan trailed off abruptly.

"But what?" asked Max, actually not sure where the tirade had been going.

The anger drained out of the officer. "But you _are_ that special."

Yet again Atlantis' military second–in-command had said the perfect thing to diffuse the tension. _Bastard. This would be easier if I could stay angry with you._

"Nobody gets asked here unless they're the top in their field; and while I knew you were good," Evan admitted sheepishly, "I don't think I really realized how good you were. You were just 'always-wins-at-Scrabble' Max." An evil grin flashed across Evan's face, "I mean, your biggest claim to fame, as I knew it, is that you're the guy who vomited on the UN Secretary General in Budapest on live TV."

Max blushed, more at the 15 minutes of internet fame that wouldn't go away, than at the actual memory itself.

"And I've known you were special since the summer we met," Evan continued, passing his dinner companion another peace-offering, pita-esque slice of bread. "But that's not enough to get someone assigned here. I'd guess Dr. Jackson suggested you based on your work for him…"

"How did you know about Jackson? That's a classified… Wait, you recommended me to him in the first place, didn't you? You've known I was working on that Goa'uld translation all along! We've been working on the Stargate project together for nearly two years, and you said nothing!" He shook the flatbread accusingly at Evan.

"I couldn't! Honestly, Prime," grinned his target. "I knew Jackson had at least considered you for the translation outsourcing on Earth; but I didn't know you were coming here until I got to review the incoming staff roster once you were already underway."

"Well imagine my surprise on sitting in a meeting—on an intergalactic starship, mind you—and seeing your mug flash up on the monitors when the base command structure was being reviewed. I nearly snorted my tea; and one of the new physicians—having seen my reaction to the Asgard beaming thing, or maybe the YouTube clip of that summit—she thought I was having some type of delayed reaction to lightspeed travel, and nearly called for a trauma cart. Like I needed more negative attention after hurling all over Colonel Caldwell's ship on beam up..."

Evan had begun chuckling at the story, and was trying unsuccessfully not to laugh aloud since Max was clearly not entirely happy with that reaction. "Oh, don't pout; you know I'm laughing with you."

Max looked entirely unconvinced, and gestured to his clearly non-merry countenance.

"Look, it sounds like we were both surprised at this crossing of paths; but really, truly, honestly—I didn't have anything to do with it. In fact, when I got your email saying you'd accepted a classified assignment and would also be out of pocket for 'an undetermined period of time,' it occurred to me that I'd left you a few such notes over the years."

Max nodded vigorously, then mournfully at the recollection of having received several. "After years of your running off on top secret, save-the-world missions, it seemed only fair that I seize the same opportunity when it was offered to me. Though I will point out, I didn't let you know by just sending you a mix CD starting with 'Leaving on a jet plane'…"(2)

Evan looked down with no small amount of shame. "Not one of my better deployment notices, I know. I'm sorry. But now that you've been through it, now that you're here," he asked earnestly, "can you see how hard it was never to be able to say anything except 'I have to go'? Based on what you've learned en route, can you understand why it's so important we're here?"

Max nodded glumly, knowing that at least on this single issue, they had both suffered for the greater good. "Granting the claim that you didn't bring me here, I suppose then that it's merely a coincidence that I'm the only new arrival to receive quarters within three levels of the senior leadership, much less on the same floor, much less one hallway over from you? And that my lab has one of the most impressive views of the city?"

Evan looked hurt again. "For your information, the quarters you got were vacant because the biologist who'd been there rotated back to Earth the outbound trip before you; and the lab was newly re-built after the Wraith siege last year. Your cohort just happened to arrive when it all was available."

"And you had nothing whatsoever to do with my assignment to them, out of all the continuing and newly arriving personnel?"

"God, Max, you really think I've been engineering this whole reunion and all the minutiae of your assignment. I have missed you; but damn! All hail, Maximus, center of the universe!" Evan jumped to his feet, stomped resentfully to the railing and slammed his palms down on it. "And you think McKay has ego issues?"

Max restrained himself from shouting back; he knew any intervention had been well-intentioned, and escalating the point now wouldn't help. So, he set down his plate, brought up one knee to lean against, and focused on adding affect to his voice. "Of course I wondered. We've talked for how long of trying to find some way to stay closer despite two mutually exclusive careers? I just hadn't realized of late we were talking about distances beyond the intercontinental scale!" He snapped out of the reverie, and refocused on the present. "Besides, you haven't denied all of it, and I know you, Nicholas Evan Lorne…"

Evan continued to stare out over the city, without acknowledging or responding to Max's insights or accusations.

"And, I do love the work space—the view, the functional windows, the airy openness… And it's very comforting knowing that you're just down the hall if I need something. But those efforts, that proximity –WE are dangerous for you. We've also talked about that for years." He sighed, as he watched Evan tense up at the naming. "I appreciate it all; and you know I am sorely tempted. But from the instant I learned you were here, I can't help but worry about the risk my being here, much less close, means for you."

Evan clutched at the railing again, breathing in deeply and scanning the still-twinkling vista. When he finally spoke, he began quiet and controlled. "Max, when I saw your name on the inbound roster, my heart skipped at the thought of getting to see you, not briefly like on leave, but daily. That after all these years apart, we were finally going to be in the same place for an extended period of time. That after not being able to tell you about the incredible things I've seen and done, I'd finally be able to share them with you, to show you.

"Then my heart sank, knowing how problematic that would be, and how pragmatically you'd want to protect me from it. But still I wondered if there wasn't _some_ way we could make it work, _somehow_ take advantage of what would probably be the closest thing we'd ever come to normal.

"And then, my team got captured off-world; and I've spent the better part of the past week as a prisoner of our most vicious human adversaries in this galaxy. I knew Atlantis thought we were dead and burned; and the Genii were taking genetic samples and threatening imminent execution constantly. So, besides how to get my men out safely, all I could think about that whole time was that you were on your way to Atlantis. That, of course, we'd come so close to a chance at life together, only to have you arrive and find me KIA. The bitter irony was one more thing that kept me going."

He turned toward Max, and leaned against the railing. "As soon as I got medically cleared late last night, and realized the _Daedalus_ had already arrived, I stood in front of your quarters for I don't know how long, wanting so much to knock, to hear your voice, just to see you for a moment –to show you and assure myself that I really had made it through, made it back OK, that you were really here. This morning, I probably would have jumped you even with Ronon there if you hadn't sucker punched me first; and all day today I couldn't concentrate on my report or get to sleep because all I wanted to do was come up and see you."

As he talked, Max could hear the tension building in his voice as he calmly confessed, "So to answer your charges: for all the years of wanting to share this with you, and especially for the past few days afraid that I would never see you again, I am _not_ sorry for putting a word in with Dr Weir regarding office or housing assignments, or for dragging you here tonight. For finally having you nearby, in _my_ world. For hoping we might finally be in a position to have something more than the occasional weekend, to be something more than penpals. No sir, I am not sorry for wanting that. And now that we have it and after everything we've already suffered for it, I am _certainly_ not afraid of a few policies or prudes."

He used his anger to pull himself up to full height, so much the soldier fighting for what he felt was right. The brilliance of the city backlit him majestically, and the breeze and waves beat a stirring soundtrack, as he forced the words out through practiced but crumbling control. "I am _so_ happy to be here, with you, for once to have the space and secrets between us gone. And knowing there's a lot still to be worked out, I would really like just to enjoy _us_ for a little while. Can we please… just relish this moment… before…"

Seeing he wasn't going to be able to finish the thought, knowing what intensity of feeling this lengthy sharing must represent, and not willing to watch Evan struggle further, Max moved despite the anger and distance he'd arrived with. Reminding the airman before him to "Breathe," he kissed the knotted forehead, and pulled him into a tight embrace. Evan gripped him with a fierceness born of relief as much as affection; and Max could feel the collected fear, frustration, anger, need and exhaustion roiling in him.

He stroked the barely regulation hair, and smiled at how, for all their issues past and present, and despite all the years, they still fit together. Wrapped together, their familiar scents overwhelmed the smells of the alien ocean; their warm contact took the edge off the falling temperature; and even as the winds picked up ahead of the arriving storm, their breathing gradually calmed and fell into rhythm. The overall situation was far from perfect, but the moment was near enough. And so, for the moment, the scientist gently scratched the soldier's back, and softly hummed a familiar favorite to him as the city and sky twinkled away around them.(3)

In the warm, familiar comfort of Max's embrace, Evan finally gave in to the sleep deprivation and tensions of the past week and to the emotional output of the last few minutes.

When the chill of raindrops didn't wake him as they rocked, both standing and one half-asleep, Max adjusted his grip to whisper into Evan's ear. "Vee, this is very nice; but you need to get some proper sleep, and neither of us needs to catch an alien cold out here."

Reacting only to the sound of the voice, Evan grumbled like a child not wanting to get up for school, and burrowed his face further into Max's neck.

"Evan," insisted Max with an amused smile, shaking him gently, "I don't know how to unlock the door…"

* * *

NOTES

1. PLAYLIST: Opéhelie Winter's _Je Cours_ ("_Up Where I belong"_), from _Privacy_ (1998).

2. PLAYLIST: Chantal Kreviazuk, _Leaving on a Jet Plane_, from _Armageddon_ soundtrack (1998).

3. PLAYLIST: Cris Williamson's _Lullabye_, from _The Essential Cris Williamson _

(2005)


	3. Day Four

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY FOUR**

The next morning the much larger-than-usual off-world team stood before the Gate, as final instructions were being given and final gear checks were being done. Nearly every 'greenie' had arrived early, all wanting to continue making good impressions on their new colleagues, and none wanting to miss what was for most their first opportunity to experience Gate travel.

"Morning, Prime. Did you have breakfast?" a well-rested Lorne asked as he stepped onto the platform behind the crowd, clipping his weapon to his tac vest.

"Yes, Major," flatly answered the language expert, who alone amongst the newbies stood still and ready, rather than fidgeting and chatting excitedly. "When I refused anti-nausea meds, Dr Beckett suggested a light, bland meal, so that when it likely comes up on the other side, it will do minimal damage to my esophageal lining and tooth enamel." He smiled at his own clinical nonchalance, at the civil engineer who stepped slightly away on overhearing the warning, and in slight appreciation for Lorne's concern. Offering one, he noted, "I even have peppermints to cleanse the palate."

"Let's just try not to insult or scare the Meerim with your introductory regurgitations… I see you have your sunglasses and hat," subject-changed Lorne.

"Yes," nodded Royce, the former hanging high on his chest, the latter drooping across his shoulders—both at the more than obvious ready.

Lorne smiled and nodded. Looking around for a beat, he remembered and asked, "And you've got sunscreen? M2T's UV levels are higher than Earth-normal. Not P3M-736 bad, but…"(1)

"Major!" Royce interrupted, his patience breaking. "I'm pale, not flammable…" Seeing that others around were staring and that Lorne was a little taken aback by the outburst, he looked down and considerably softened his volume and tone, "I'm a big boy. I'll be fine; thanks."

Sheppard joined them from the Control Room, his outfit suggesting a day of in-office paperwork rather than off-world chaperoning. Sensing the tension and apparently having overheard the exchange, he reminded, "Well, I trust you're both wearing clean underwear; just in case something happens, we want you reflecting well on the family."

All three men smiled, as the Gate kawoosh signaled an end to the banter and a beginning to the journey. Lorne made introductions quickly as the crowd reacted to the wormhole formation in less-than-muffled "oohs" and "ahhs." "Colonel John Sheppard, this is Dr Max Royce, our new sociolinguist and a friend from home. If it's OK with you, sir, I thought I'd accompany the group on their first off-world trip."

"It's your off-day," shrugged the Colonel. Shaking hands and smiling warmly, Sheppard assured the newcomer that, "It's a simple meet and greet with the Meerim over their evening meal. I'd suggest the darker vegetables, by the way; they make less noise at both ends." Snagging the mint Lorne was still struggling to open, he added, "Welcome to Gate travel, Dr Royce."

At the head of the crowd, the Lieutenant scheduled to lead the excursion shouted one last reminder for everyone to keep moving forward as they stepped out on the other side, and waved the group across the event horizon.

At the back of the line, Royce put on his hat and sunglasses with a slightly exaggerated motion, and quietly unfolded the bio-bag from his vest, noting that Lorne discreetly checked to make sure he had done so. Knowing it was well-intentioned, he flashed a reassuring and honest "here we go!" smile, and followed the crowd in, with a grinning major right behind him.

* * *

Well-versed in others' descriptions of the experience, Royce noted each sensation as it came: A shadow across the vision, the odd tingle all over his body—like a full-body static charge, and a slight chill without the typical shudder. And he exhilarated in it all, knowing an inevitable wave of nausea would follow soon enough.

He felt his forward foot make contact on solid ground, and was quickly blinded by the sudden change of stepping from indoor morning Atlantis to late evening, outdoor Meerux. The calm quiet of the City and slight ring of wormhole travel were quickly replaced by panicked shouting and the sound of weapons fire, and a strange screeching-buzzing noise from the sky. The smell of fresh air, ozone and sulfur washed across him, and his stomach lurched in familiar response to all the unfamiliar sensations. Only the nausea was expected as the gurgling Gate blinked shut behind him.

Turning away from the chaos before him, he felt Lorne push roughly past him, stepping into the fray, yelling, "What the…? Fall back! Parker, redial now!"

Not able to control the nausea any longer, nor able to get the bag up fast enough, Royce braced himself against the dialing Gate and gave in viscerally to the sensory overload. Almost immediately he felt what had to be Lorne's less-than-gentle shove, and he toppled to the ground as a stun blast slammed into the metal ring where he'd been standing.

* * *

Sheppard had just reached the top of the main staircase, as the darkened atrium began refilling with lights and sounds.

"Incoming wormhole," shouted the on-duty technician.

"Chuck, are we expecting anyone?" Sheppard asked as he turned back to the rapidly dialing ring.

"No sir; no one's supposed to be checking in for a few hours."

_Not good news,_ he thought as he placed his hand on his thigh holster.

As the vortex collapsed into the quieter event horizon, everyone could hear the self-explanatory radio chatter. "Atlantis, Lorne. We're returning hot!"

Sheppard had his sidearm drawn instantly, "Security!" He trained his attention on the Gate, daring an unfriendly to appear.

"IDC match, sir!"

"Open it," Sheppard barked as defense Marines and the just-departed away team tumbled into the gate room from different directions.

Weapons tracked on each gate arrival, assessing and ignoring the civilians as some came through at a full sprint, others backpedaling or diving—all screaming and moving quickly to clear the platform, and to seek shelter away from it.

Accompanied by a few random energy blasts, the retreating civilian uniforms finally turned to military, as the Air Force and Marine personnel backed through the Gate, all with weapons still firing into the open wormhole. They were also dragging two unconscious or wounded team members as they slowly backed away from the event horizon.

"Shield and close!" shouted Sheppard above the commotion, counting heads and knowing the soldiers would be bringing up the rear. They wouldn't leave anyone behind; their arrival meant that no one else would be following.

As the shield shimmered on before the Gate winked closed, a single blast slipped through and caught the central warrior squarely in the chest. He toppled over in the center of the Gate dais, becoming one of the few points of stillness in an otherwise frantically busy room of reaction and response.

* * *

Lorne gradually came to, shaking his head to clear the haze, and quickly taking account of himself and his surroundings: no localized pain or numbness, all extremities present, his gear had been removed and he was lying on his back on a soft surface. He could hear the hum of many voices in the mid-distance—excited but not panicked, and there was a sudden movement at his side. Turning quickly, he relaxed when he saw that it was Max.

"Evan?" the linguist sighed and smiled, seeing that the patient's expression was confusion, not pain. "You took a stun blast as the Gate closed; but you're fine." He took Evan's hand where it lay on the bed, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He saw Evan give him a quick once over, and relax a little further on seeing that he also seemed well and was now wearing his storied "Fear the schwa" t-shirt. "I'm fine," Max assured. "I just took off my duty top because it was… dirty."

With the immediate concerns addressed, Evan's headache and memory reminded him of other concerns, "And the rest of the team?"

"One SO and one civilian were swept up, but everyone else got back with little injury. Colonel Sheppard says we walked right into the end of a culling. We must have dialed in just as they released the Gate."

Hearing voices, Sheppard stepped around the corner toward them, as Royce released Lorne's hand and stepped back quickly. "And, pushing our luck 'cause we have to, we're regrouping and going back on a look-see for our people and what brought the Wraith to Meerux so unexpectedly. If you're up to it, Major, consider your day off back on; full gear briefing in twenty in the Jumper Bay."

"I'll be there," confirmed Lorne immediately, as he sat up and shifted gears to others' recovery.

Sheppard and Royce both nodded, neither the least bit surprised by this will-do reaction.

The three men sat or stood in silence for a moment: Royce expecting the two soldiers to head off together; Sheppard sensing the two friends had more to say to each other; and Lorne not sure which expectation to meet.

Royce broke the stalemate, rocking on his heels and suggesting, "I'll bet you both want to see to your people and preparations; and I have some… laundry to do." Clapping Lorne on the arm, he verbalized, "I'm glad you're OK."

Lorne watched him back out of the alcove, nodding to Sheppard as he went, and shouted after him, "Verily!"

Royce glanced back at Lorne with a fleeting look of pleasant surprise, then at Sheppard and back again, before nodding in acknowledgement as he headed out.

"'Verily'?" asked the Colonel.

The Major stood up, stretched, and half-explained, "Truly, sir, he did need to do some laundry. I'm guessing I pushed him down into his own breakfast?"

_True enough_, nodding Sheppard, and followed the Major toward Dr Beckett for his discharge clearance. _That would've been footage for the holiday party…_

* * *

Later that afternoon, French phonics were flying in the language lab.

"Je suis en désaccord, Vivienne. No, I think it's more like the 'i kratkoye' in Russian and other Slavic systems," responded Royce. "See how it's used here in their word for 'livestock'…"

His colleague shook her head, grabbing for and pointing at another printout, "But we know several cases where it is used in initial positions; that is not typical for semivowels such as this."

"Not in Indo-European languages, not on Earth…," he reminded her, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses, still not quite believing he had just uttered that statement. "But contemporary Russian does have it in some foreign words. Perhaps this is evidence of a similar linguistic importation, through intercontinental migration or even Gate travel?"

As they both pondered the possibility, another accented voice spoke: "Dr Royce?"

Turning away and touching his earpiece to indicate he was reacting to it, he switched to English for, "Dr Beckett? This is Royce."

"I need ye to come to the Infirmary."

Royce's mind clicked through a list: The physician's voice was solemn and urgent. There had been an unscheduled off-world activation less than fifteen minutes previous. And, Evan's team had accompanied Sheppard's on the post-cull reconnaissance mission barely two hours earlier. He was no mathematician, but two plus two…

"We'll have to finish later," echoed around the corner as his red, blue and tan blur vanished through the door. Finding this level's transporter half-full of sample cases and their entomologists, Royce raced to the nearest stairwell, shouting "Down ladder! Make a hole!" at a few physicists who had just started up it. Leaping down past them, he re-crossed the level to its transporter at a sprint, and stabbed at the city's hospital.

Holding his breath and stomach, he knew the queasiness he fought was more tha n transporter-related, especially when it only worsened as he bolted into the Infirmary lightheaded and breathless, and faced Beckett for the second time that day. "What's happened?" he asked. "Where's—?" he cut himself off, looking well past the physician, his eyes searching every inch of the rooms beyond.

"We're just prepping Major Lorne for surgery."

Not surprisingly, Royce reacted to that confirmation like a full-body exclamation point.

Beckett took him by the arm, focusing him on their conversation rather than the nightmare scenarios likely playing out in his head. "Dr Royce, you know all the personnel here complete extensive medical powers of attorney, living wills and final instructions. But because time, distance and security mean we can't usually contact family back home, emergency medical authority is defaulted to superior officers."

Royce gaped at him, utterly bewildered by the administrative tour at this particular moment. "Thank you for the policy review, Doctor. Is there a point?"

"So, while we usually ignore the personal designees, we obviously didn't when your name popped up. The Major's had you listed after his sister since he arrived on Atlantis, since he joined the Stargate program actually."

Royce stilled instantly, anxious shock morphing into surprise.

"Max, he wants you to make any extreme care decisions for him."

Royce looked to the depths of the Infirmary, many more cryptic conversations over the years suddenly making sense. Quickly, his fear bettered his nostalgia, and his expression returned to alarm.

Beckett felt the shudder that ran through him, and so reassured him slightly, "We're not to that point; he took a right nasty fall, is in critical condition, but he's a fighter. I just thought you'd want to know, to be ready just in case, and to be prepared to spend a little time with him. After the surgery, a lot of his- improvement will be up to him. Do you understand?"

Royce nodded unconvincingly.

"A nurse will bring you some forms and records to review; you're welcome to stay here if you like. I'll find you as soon as we're done."

Royce continued nodding absentmindedly, even as Beckett guided him into a nearby chair. He was shivering; and though Beckett knew it had nothing to do with temperature, he added, "And perhaps a hot drink. There's nay much a nice cup o' tea won't take the edge off."

Royce was still nodding automatically when the nurse brought the mug, a few cookies and the digital tablet a few minutes later.

* * *

"Can we see him?" The words leapt out of Royce's mouth, and he to his feet, as soon as Beckett stepped into the room; the OR doors hadn't even begun to close behind the physician. Some part of his mind chided him for the obvious outburst; but concern far outweighed caution after several hours of excruciating waiting.

Beckett saw that Dr Royce had been joined by Weir and Sheppard; he'd bet the rest of the senior leadership wasn't far away. He put his hand on Royce's shoulder, and spoke to the entire vigil party. "He's in post-op now; I'll have someone come and get you as soon as he's able to have visitors. In the meanwhile, you'll be glad to know that the apparent physical injury is actually pretty minor. The bleeding was primarily from a large cut to his scalp, rather than to any damage to the skull; his brainstem and spine seem fine. He's bruised a few ribs, fractured his arm, and is pretty badly scratched and black-and-blue all over, but nothing that won't heal soon enough."

Royce continued to stare at the blood that stained Beckett's surgical robe, and exhaled slightly at the slightly good news. Weir forced her hands down to her sides, also pleased. Sheppard remained standing with thumbs hooked in his pockets, no less relieved if less expressive.

Beckett continued, "Once the topical anesthetics wear off, we'll know more; but it looks like he should be fine if— once he wakes." He grimaced at his wearied word choice, seeing every other face react to it.

Before anyone could jump on it, he explained, "The Major arrived unconscious, and at the very least has a severe concussion. Based on the height you reported he fell, and the amount and severity of the bruising he's showing, it's very clear he was banged up pretty badly on the way down. But the tumble likely absorbed a lot of the kinetic energy that would have killed him instantly had it been a straight fall."

"But…?" asked Sheppard.

"But he did take at least one nasty blow to the head, and cranial injuries are always tricky. There doesn't appear to be any obvious tissue or nerve damage. But honestly, he could simply be unconscious, or he could be in a coma. We'll be doing a full neurological battery as soon as we can, and we'll know more then."

The military doctor's son cut to the quick. "But you're not sure when or even if he'll wake up, are you?" Royce asked.

This time, Beckett was careful to choose his words deliberately, "I don't see any physical reason why he wouldn't. We'll know more in a few hours."

Royce bit his lip rather than point out the evasion or offer his unflattering opinion of it.

Looking aside at the unhappy linguist, Sheppard asked a final question, "Carson, what about our… other patient?"

Nervous glances passed among everyone except Royce, who was still somewhat fixated on Beckett's stained smock. "He should be fine. He's in the… the holding room," the physician nodded his head in the direction of the medical lab down the hall, before turning back to the City's new arrival. "Dr Royce, when was the last time you slept or ate?"

"I'm fine," Royce lied blatantly. "Your nurse brought a few biscuits with the tea."

"That was hours ago, and I'm the medical doctor here. Look, it'll be a little while longer before he's ready for any visitors. Why don't you go get a late dinner; and I'll let the duty nurse know to expect you for a brief look-see before you head off to bed?

"Dr Beckett, I-"

"I wasn't asking, son. Doctor's orders." Even gently put, it was clear that the conversation was over.

Royce quickly resolved not to fight any further, and he breathed in deeply, pulling himself together and to full height simultaneously, "Thank you, Doctor. I'll be back shortly." He nodded to Sheppard and Weir as well, stepped to the exit and didn't quite catch the stutter step on the threshold, before willing himself to actually let the doors close behind him.

"He's taking this pretty hard," observed Weir, ever mindful of the human impact of the adventures in Atlantis.

"Lorne said they've been best friends since high school," offered Sheppard. "Besides, he's only been here a couple of days; most civilians don't get this much action so soon."

"Aye," concurred Beckett, "And he's not the first friend who's turned my front room into a long-term lounge…" Indeed, they all had lost count of the hours they'd spent at the Infirmary, waiting for good news—any news—about colleagues and friends.

"Ditto on that, Doc," added Sheppard. "We're going to debrief the mission teams tonight; but I'm hoping this 'guest' will fit the bill for your trials."

"Aye, but can we talk about that in the morning? Everyone's had a long day, and it's not quite over yet."

"Of course, Carson," assured Weir, patting him on the arm. "Please make sure you follow your own orders about that food and rest."

* * *

Sheppard and Weir stepped out of the Infirmary and headed toward the transporter, when a now-familiar voice interrupted their already quiet conversation, "Dr Weir?"

They stopped and turned to see Royce just up from the bench beside the door. Sheppard was first to speak, "Didn't the Doc tell you to go get some dinner?"

"He told me to leave, and I left, Colonel." Turning curtly to Weir, his tone changed to something clearly more familiar. "Elizabeth, could I please have a word with you?"

She sized up his clear distress, and nodded to Sheppard, "I'll catch up."

He non-verbally confirmed that she'd be OK, and backed away slowly, perhaps hoping to catch a little of their conversation before getting out of earshot.

But Royce stood patiently and silently until he was well beyond hearing.

"Colonel Sheppard says you and Major Lorne have been friends for a long time; I imagine this is very difficult for you."

Royce nodded glumly. "He's my oldest and closest friend in the world. All of the worlds…," he corrected with a nervous smile, still adjusting and expanding his view of the universe. "So I hope you'll understand that I would very much like to know what happened to him. When I got here, he had been killed and then downgraded to 'just' kidnapped by the Genii; and not two days later he's knocked unconscious and then plunging to death's door on yet another planet at the hand of yet another enemy."

Weir considered whether he should be brought into the mission-specific loop, and whether telling him more would actually make him feel any better.

Seeing her hesitation, Royce's whisper echoed his worried look, "Please?"

While she didn't know him well, they had worked together closely but not frequently over the years; and she could tell how drained he was, even from his energetic arrival a few days before. "Tell you what, if you walk with me to the dining hall—coffee for me, dinner for you, I'll tell you what I can before I head to a meeting." She offered him her arm to emphasize the 'moving' aspect of the offer.

He smiled tiredly and gratefully, and took her arm; and they headed in the direction Sheppard hadn't.

"We've been juggling a number of things, including concern for Major Lorne, so Colonel Sheppard and I haven't had a chance to review the details of what happened. However, as I understand it so far, it seems that part of the Wraith's interest in Meerux was a previously unknown Ancient outpost there. When our teams returned in cloaked jumpers, they found the culling in full force on the neighboring planet, a signal from what they believe was an Ancient facility across the planet from the gate, and a small Wraith presence at that site. So they investigated. In a sequence of events I'm not entirely clear on, a Wraith dart fired on the facility, collapsing a significant portion of it. Lorne was above the collapsing section, and seems to have been the most badly injured of our personnel. We did manage to capture a prisoner, and hope to learn more about what the Wraith interest was, and of course, whatever we can about the facility itself."

Though she couldn't say he looked less worried for knowing the details, Weir could tell that Royce certainly was much calmer. He seemed very much deep in thought, analyzing the details of what little she could tell him, and likely trying to figure out next steps for Lorne, Atlantis and him.

Having reached the Dining Hall by stairwell, he stopped and confirmed her assessment of him, "I realize I'm very new to all this, but I would very much like to help. My Wraith is not yet quite on par with my Ancient; but if I can assist with the interrogation of the prisoner or making sense of the Ancient facility…"

Before Weir could make a polite non-commitment, Royce pre-empted her, "Please, Elizabeth. My best friend may be comatose over all this; and if I'm not busy doing something useful about that, I…"

"I understand, Max," she assured him. Virtually everyone in Atlantis suffered from the same inability not to be involved when their friends and teammates were in trouble. "I do. If you promise to follow Dr Beckett's instructions, and let me get a better handle on what we're dealing with on Meerux, I'll see if there isn't some space for your skills."

It wasn't a firm commitment, but it wasn't a blow-off, either. And Royce knew from having witnessed some of Weir's international negotiations and their debriefings that he wasn't likely to get more if that's all she was willing to give at this point. As much as he wanted to jump into the 'fix' at this very moment, he needed not to bring too much attention to his passion for all things Evan. Instead, that commitment required him now to take the longer view, to be patient, to trust her.

Weir could literally see him trying to decide whether to accept or push; he looked at her, up the corridor they'd come through, and back again several times. She knew from the insights he'd offered in a few negotiation sessions that he could do more than just translate words and nuances, that he 'got' the bigger diplomatic picture. He just needed a final nudge here. So she caught his eye and vowed, "I promise I will update you by late morning, once I know more of what's going on. OK?"

He nodded, and forced a smile for her generosity to date. Taking a deep breath, he decided to demonstrate his _temporary _change of focus. Turning toward the Commissary doors they stood beside, he ushered them in, asking, "So what would you suggest here at Chez Atlantis?"

* * *

NOTE

1. The ultra-high UV planet in _Runner_ (SGA 2.03).


	4. Day Five

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY FIVE**

Sheppard met Weir and Beckett as they arrived together and last to the conference room, joining the rest of the Colonel's team already there. Everyone took their seats quickly, knowing the agenda was long and time, short.

Sipping from her cup, Weir began, "Good morning, everyone. I know it's been a busy few weeks, and it doesn't look like it's going to let up any time soon. So, let's get to it… Carson, how are Major Lorne and his team?"

Looking only slightly more rested than the late night before, the Head of Medicine started with the good news. "Aye. Levine was released first thing this morning with just a few stitches, and three days desk duty, just in case. Major Lorne, however, has still not regained consciousness; and while I'm having a full neurological battery run on him now, it honestly doesn't look good. He's not brain dead; but there's no obvious reason he shouldn't be showing some signs of consciousness."

The room stilled as everyone took in the implied prognosis.

He sighed his trademark, understated wish-I-could-do-more-but-I-just-can't sigh, and looked up toward Sheppard's team. "I was hoping that I could hear more about the details of his injury, in the hopes that might give us a little more indication of what exactly happened to him."

"We know you're doing everything you can, Carson," assured Weir.

Sheppard nodded a promise, "We'll get to the mission report in a second. But before we get too far off medical news, any updates on our prisoner?"

"I've only given him a preliminary check, as I was focused on our people. But he's woken up, and is none too happy at being here."

McKay reminded them all that, "It's no use interrogating him; and it's just a matter of time until he starves to death since we can't feed him."

The military commander cut to the quick, "For exactly that reason, I wanted to suggest that we try Carson's retrovirus procedure as soon as possible. Who knows when we'll get our next chance; and Rodney's right, this is all we're likely to get out of him."

"Carson, are you ready for an actual live trial?" asked Weir.

"I suppose so. I've made some modifications since our experience with Ellia a few months back. And there's not much more we can do with computer models."

Sheppard grimaced most of all at the memory of how he too was involved, affected and infected.(1)

"And this Wraith is a good subject?" pressed the Expedition leader.

"He's here," bottomlined Ronon.

Beckett nodded, "As far as I can tell, he's in good health; based on how quickly he woke up and is healing, he may have even fed on one of the Meerim just before we caught him. This would let us see what effect it could have on the Wraith near the height of their strength and regenerative capability. And, the longer we wait, the more likely any complications will harm or kill him as he weakens."

"And what happens if it is successful?" asked the Athosian leader, who had quietly taken in all the discussion so far.

"Well then we've found a way to declaw the Wraith once and for all. Literally!" stated McKay. _Obviously!_

Unphased, she clarified her question, "I meant regarding this specific Wraith. If we are able to successfully transform him into a human, what then for him? We cannot very well return him to the Wraith; would he remain here, on Atlantis?"

"We'd really let an ex-Wraith wander the City of the Ancients? I vote 'no' on that one," affirmed the Satedan, sitting back from the table and crossing his arms in emphasis.

Weir turned to the physician, "The conversion would be physical, genetic. What impact would it have on personality, emotions, on memory even?"

"You mean, would he still know he's a Wraith?" paraphrased Sheppard.

"And act accordingly, yes," confirmed Weir.

Beckett's head swam with details and lack of them, trying to sort through it all to the ultimate, whole person result. "I can only be sure of the physiological changes, as the regimen will suppress but not actually overwrite his Wraith DNA to a purely human form. To the degree that a successful treatment fundamentally boxes the biological bases of his memory and personality as well, I imagine that would likely mean a clean slate for his higher functions."

"Carson, are we talking making him human 'beyond a shadow of a doubt' or 'a preponderance of evidence'?" asked Sheppard, putting to good use the hours of legal process television shows he'd watched via the _Daedalus'_ entertainment stores.

"Probably," offered Beckett finally. "That's the best I can say."

No one seemed particularly satisfied by the mere likelihood.

A waving hand at one end of the table caught all their attentions. "As touching as all this prodigal Wraith planning is," panned McKay. "The new kid's homeys are likely trashing that Ancient facility on Meerux as we speak. So, since he's just an injection or two from whatever outcome, might we get back to the more time sensitive of our agenda items?"

Weir nodded, "Given Colonel Sheppard's recuperation time after his… exposure, I expect it would be at least a few days before we have to make any decisions about a treated Wraith. So, Carson, with a clear second priority to medical care for our personnel, you have a go for the retrovirus treatment. Continue working with Colonel Sheppard on security arrangements, and keep us all updated on any progress or if you have to deviate from the initial proposal you sketched out last month. And, as you'd asked about details of Major Lorne's injury, let's turn to the situation on Meerux and Meerol. Colonel?"

Sheppard tapped a few commands into the tablet before him, disseminating After Action Reports to everyone. "These are the preliminary AARs from the teams on site at the Ancient facility, minus Levine and Lorne, obviously. In short," he summarized as the others read or listened along, "on returning to Meerux a few hours after the initial newbies' visit, we found the Meerim settlement pretty well emptied, far faster than the single hive ship we assumed to have arrived could have done. So, we headed to higher orbit to get a better sense of what we were dealing with. That's when we detected the Ancient signal, and the Wraith contingent who also seemed to be investigating it."

"Why didn't we detect the facility on any one of our earlier visits to Meerux?" asked Weir. "Whether it was activated by one of our team's ATA genes, or has been transmitting for centuries, shouldn't we have picked it up?"

"Well, it couldn't have been on forever, or the Wraith would have long ago noticed it on an earlier culling," explained their tech expert.

"Precisely," repeated Weir. "So it activated since the last culling, and that would suggest that one of our team's presence on the planet…"

Uncomfortably aware of the requirements for activating Ancient technologies, Beckett observed, "But you had to fly Major Lorne halfway around the planet from the facility to the Stargate. Usually we have to touch, if not be in much closer proximity to Ancient technology to turn it on."

McKay pressed on, still eager to move on to question of 'now what,' rather than 'why.' "Maybe this outpost was designed to be more sensitive given its distance from the Gate, or maybe the greenie team included a large enough concentration of ATA genes to be smelled a hemisphere away. Point is, older or recent, while it may have been able to sense us all the way around the planet, we'd never taken the _Daedalus_ or a jumper to the planet, much less into orbit, in order to detect that distant signal until the recon mission. The only reason we found it was because we were at a high enough altitude, _and_ happened to notice a collection of darts well away from the population centers."

Seeing no more questions on the background details, Sheppard continued the narrative of the mission once the source of the signal was located. "We detected a number of lifesigns on the surface, under the tree cover, and so dropped off our two teams and left the jumpers airborne for cover as needed. On approaching the beacon source, we came across a number of Wraith gathered around a small, simple structure. It was dark and the building was overgrown, but it did appear to be Ancient architecture.

"Anyway, the Wraith had obviously not had any luck getting into it by manual force, and they had just taken a few shots with handhelds when we got close. It didn't seem to get them anywhere, and we thought they were giving up and pulling back. Turns out, they were just making space for an aerial bombardment that came in from behind us, took out the structure and a good part of the ground around it. And, as the forest floor caved in, we struggled not to fall in. Levine got caught in trees, but Lorne was on point and went most of the way in.

"By the time we got them both out, the Wraith were back to explore their handiwork. We were barely able to get a jumper down on the edge of the sinkhole, and get all our folks out."

"And our new friend?" queried Beckett.

"One of the tech drones noticed us, and got in the way. Teyla engaged him hand-to-hand until Ronon took him down; turns out his weapon was on stun."

"My bad," admitted the hunter.

Teyla picked up the story, "We dragged him into the jumper as well, hoping that he could tell us what they thought or knew was in the structure."

"So before Carson pokes him with any more needles, I'll have some of my folks ask him what he knows, just in case," offered Sheppard. "And, we need to get back to Meerux and get a look at that outpost, which is obviously much bigger underground than above."

"Pity Colonel Caldwell couldn't have stayed around a few extra days; we could use his scanners and firepower," mildly griped McKay.

"The _Daedalus _helped us narrow down our search for Major Lorne's team and the Genii base during their coup, but had to get underway."

"Maybe one day we'll have a ship based here…," mused McKay aloud. Seeing several faces turning toward him, he reasoned, "What? _DS9_ got their own ship in the third season; and it came in very handy during the Dominion War, thank you very much."

"Well until we get our own battleship," smirked Sheppard at the wistful Trekker, "I'd like to take another team back to the facility site. We know to be extra careful now; and I think everyone's agreed that we have to find out what is, or was, in that outpost."

Seeing nods and agreeable faces all around, Weir summarized the action items as the meeting clearly came to a close. "Alright then, Carson, keep us updated on Major Lorne, and your progress with the retrovirus treatment. We'll revisit your patient's longer term arrangements as we see how the process goes. And Colonel, if our prisoner is secure, take whomever you need for this Meerux mission, and take good care."

As the team stood and headed out for their respective next steps, Weir called after her military counterpart, "John, can I speak to you for a moment? I have a favor to ask regarding this mission…"

* * *

Less than an hour later, Sheppard's team was settling into Jumper One when Royce jogged up the ramp and quickly took his seat in the rear compartment with the Marines. McKay, who had stopped his story in mid-sentence upon the new arrival, looked him over and, mouth still open, swiveled in the co-pilot's seat to face the team leader. "What's up with that?" he pointed and demanded indignantly.

Not needing to see whom he was fretting over, Sheppard explained calmly, "We might not have much time, Rodney. With Wraith likely still all over the system, Elizabeth felt it was a good idea to have our two best Ancient decoders to speed up the work on anything we find."

McKay exhaled loudly and explained, "I meant the gun." Pointing again at Royce and then at his own thigh holster, he reminded, "I didn't just _get_ a gun; I had to get certified."

Himself insulted, Royce defended his armament if not his presence, "I arrived already certified, Dr McKay. It's in my file." Cutting off his supervisor's annoyed grunt by further ignoring him, Royce continued, "I'm sorry for the delay, Colonel. The armory rushed the check-out as much as possible."

Aghast at the lack of supportive reaction and the disinterest in his feelings, McKay grunted again, crossed his arms and whipped about in his chair, head held artificially high. "Well, I'll just have to hope they're handing out free sick bags with every sidearm these days."

"Let's just get on with it," refocused their pilot, as he lifted them off the landing pad and headed down toward the Gatrium.

* * *

Cloaking the instant they emerged from the Gate on Meerux, Sheppard pulled the Jumper into a steep climb in order to do a high altitude scan for Wraith activity in the area. McKay was quickly and satisfyingly pulled from his sulk by Royce's audible discomfort with the wormhole experience, and by the HUD's indication of significant power readings nearer the twin planet of Meerol.

"I'm reading two hive ships and a number of escorts," he explained as the blurs resolved into a cloud of distinct vessel indicators.

"They're still culling the sister world," Sheppard deduced.

"No," suggested the Athosian leader, as she closed her eyes and felt out the massive presence in her own way. "Even with the larger population on Meerol, they should have long finished the culling there. It has been almost a full day since they began. They are…"

"Gorged?" suggested McKay.

"...in no hurry to move on immediately," she stated. "Still, we will need to remain vigilant and act quickly; they could return to Meerux at any time."

The jumper swiftly dove back toward the planet's far side and the remains of the Ancient facility.

"If they think they destroyed the outpost here, they won't have much reason to return," suggested Ronon, sounding almost sorry the chances for a further fight were slim.

"Not in this rain," griped McKay, as the weather on this side of the planet turned rough around them.

* * *

Setting down a short distance from the Ancient facility, the enlarged team had a brief walk on their approach to it. Hoping the lack of lifesigns in the area indicated the Wraith had not found anything useful and so had left, Sheppard set the mission stage. "Alright everybody, scans show all clear; but still, let's take it very carefully: While the heavy rain might cover our tracks, it's also making everything slick and covering a lot of sounds. And, we didn't get a good look last time we were here, never mind the damage the Wraith did after we left. LeBreton will keep the jumper ready for quick support. Let's buddy up so we can keep an eye on each other. Teyla with me on lead, Ronon you take…"

"Royce," interjected the Satedan matter-of-factly, heading off a less favorable assignment.

"Hey," started McKay, as Royce mirrored the other bearded man's grin.

"You're not being picked last, Rodney. Calm down. You're with Tucker. Ricks and Ndele, take our six."

The team set off, following Sheppard and his Ancient handheld PDA. Within minutes they were all soaking wet; and the storm showed no signs of letting up. Only the flashes of lightning, much brighter through the trees ahead of them, rather than through the foliage overhead, gave them any sense of progress amidst the cold, mud and drip.

"I don't like being this wet. Reminds me of Kolya's storm last year.(2) That was so not fun," McKay complained.

"Can it, Rodney," instructed Sheppard. "You won't melt, unless you're a bad witch."

Royce whispered to Ronon, a little louder than he'd intended over a sudden lull in the raindrops, "Is he always like this?"

Ronon's affirmative grunt was followed quickly by a self-defensive, stream of consciousness from the accused. "'Like this?' What could be making me 'like this'? Oh, I don't know… Perhaps the fact that at this exact moment I'm freezing and soaking wet on a planet that could be crawling with insectoid bipeds whose sole purpose in life is to suck mine out of me through my chest!"

"Speaking of which, here's a question my entire cohort couldn't figure out," redirected the linguist. "Why don't we just build chest plates into our uniforms? If they always feed through the center chest, then block access. Kevlar vests stop bullets; surely we have something that can stop a hand sucker."

"We're in mortal danger, and the lost Weasley brother here is giving fashion advice?" McKay sneered dismissively.

Royce grinned to his partner, "You'll notice that he didn't answer the question or dismiss the suggestion…"

The Runner shrugged and rolled his eyes at McKay, nodding for Royce to ignore him and keep moving. With a flick of an imaginary wand, the latter did so.

Ahead of them, a clearing opened in the forest. Where once tall trees had reached up toward the sky, now only a few thin wisps of vapor rose up from a large, timber and earth-clogged hole in the ground. Rivulets of rainwater poured over the edge in several places, and their splashes echoed up from the cavernous dark.

"Doctor McKay," whispered his escort, nodding toward the multiple little plumes. "Should we have any reason to be concerned about what might be loose or leaking? We did have that 'containment' problem last year when one of the labs got roughed up…"(3)

McKay stopped in mid-stride, instinctively moving to cover his mouth, before catching himself and turning to lecture instead. "If anything was released by the attack, it would have dissipated substantially in this wind. And besides, it would have likely affected the team that was here before. Major Lorne wasn't poisoned or infected, just clumsy…"

"Rodney!" chided Sheppard.

"What?" shrugged McKay. "If we'd been able to look around more last time rather than having to med-evac, we wouldn't have given the Wraith first dibs on whatever this facility held. As it is, I'm wet, cold and very likely going to leave empty-handed. Again."

"You sonnofa—" shouted Royce, spinning around and connecting with McKay's jaw faster than any of them would have expected.

McKay yelped in surprise-become-pain and went down hard.

Dex grabbed the back of Royce's vest and kept him from jumping atop the sprawled scientist.

"Oh my god; did you see that? He attacked me!" gasped McKay, cradling his jaw and trying to inch away through the thick mud.

Royce glared and grasped at him from the end of Ronon's grip, seething through his teeth. "Lorne is in a coma he might not wake up from; and all you can do is complain because you're DAMP? For all your brilliance, you sure don't seem to notice 'the line' when you go barreling over it!"

"Stand down, Royce; don't make me regret letting you come on this mission," ordered Sheppard. "See if you can find a safe way down," he nodded Ronon to move on with the livid linguist, who was mumbling unpleasant things under his breath. Sheppard thought he made out 'cruciatus,' but couldn't be sure.

Turning to the prone physicist, he didn't offer the requested hand up. Instead he leaned over and glared at the irritated and newly surprised McKay, "The only reason he hit you was because he got to you before I could."

McKay gaped at the intended violence from his friend and leader.

"First, don't you ever, EVER complain that way about Lorne or anyone else who's risked their ass to save yours. And second, I don't know what kind of pissing contest you and Royce are in; but it's been pretty clear that you're starting it each time. As Head of Sciences I expect you to fix it, nicely and permanently."

McKay made to protest, still reeling from both the physical blow and the apparent betrayal of the Colonel.

Sheppard cut him off, "So help you, Rodney; don't make me stop this mission again." He turned and headed off, leaving McKay to look in vain to Tucker or one of the other soldiers for a hand up. It was clear he was very much alone in his soggy sulk.

* * *

Farther along, the team discovered that the original facility entrance had been destroyed when the Wraith forced their way in. So they had no choice but to make their way carefully down the steep, shattered ramp that had been formed when the forest floor - facility roof had given way. The German and South African soldiers remained topside to guide the lead line they'd tied off at the surface, and to keep an eye out for returning Wraith.

The primary team's flashlights lanced around the large space that spread out before them at the end of the impromptu entry. Clearly Lantean in design, it was remarkably plain—an expansive, roughly two-story high room with no apparent exits or adornments except the odd structural strut or empty cable port. In fact, the entirety of the room's contents was clearly recently added debris from the roof's collapse. If there had been anything else here, it was now gone.

"Did the roof crush the contents?"

"Or maybe some industrious Wraith already took whatever was here," pondered the muddied McKay, before realizing the implication of the statement. He looked over to see Royce clench his fists; and so quickly reported from his scanner, "No, there's no energy or particulate residue suggesting there was anything here before rainwater, forest organics and roofing materials."

"Perhaps it was some sort of disused storehouse?" asked Teyla.

"But there's no way to get things in and out. Based on your report, the entry building the Wraith couldn't open except with bombardment was only large enough for a small elevator or transporter at most; nothing cargo sized would have fit."

"A hangar or jumper bay?" asked the consummate pilot. "The roof could have been the doors, like the original _Prometheus_ dock on Earth?"

"No," dismissed McKay, "You can see from the remaining structure that the roof has no mechanism for opening, retracting or anything."

"It's like a big black box theatre," suggested Royce, speaking for the first time since the assault on his supervisor.

"A what?" inquired Teyla, not having heard the term before.

"A type of flexible performance space," McKay offered, hoping the objective definition would be seen as an olive branch to his staff member, rather than showing off. "It's basically an empty room, in which you can install whatever lights, sets, props and seating you need for a particular show. Very popular with poor, fringe –I mean, experimental artists." He smiled, working hard to end on a nice note.

"Well, it seems they've been dark for quite some time," observed Sheppard, worrying that they'd paid dearly for what looked to be good, last minute seats for a closed show.

"Sheppard," called Ronon from nearer the hanging roof debris. "There's more this way." He moved along the wall through a gap beside the dangling roof, and the others carefully picked their way after him.

Almost immediately behind the collapsed roof was the room's fourth wall. Ronon pointed his light and gun into what was apparently the only doorway out of the large room. Radioing the surface guard to let them know they were going further in, the team proceeded down a short corridor that lead to a handful of rooms. One had a few bunks and storage cabinets built into the walls; beside it what was likely a Lantean kitchen and dining room; between them, a full bathroom. A few other empty rooms had numerous plugs and ports for equipment that once could have been there, but the dust patterns in the floor didn't suggest they had been recently removed.

From the hallway, Ronon's voice called them toward him, "Sheppard! McKay!"

They entered the room farthest from the large chamber, and found two consoles still in place—this room's and so far the facility's only furnishings.

"It's a power room," squeaked McKay, squeezing through and into the space, "just like on Atlantis." He tried the closer station, and got no response, and so moved quickly to the three-armed table beyond. "Damn," he exclaimed, slamming his fists on it.

"Care to share with the rest of the class?" asked Sheppard, shining the light toward him in emphasis.

Batting it away, he explained, "It's a Zed PM console, used to power this facility. And it's the same size as the City's, so that means they must have drawn some significant power for whatever it was they were doing here."

"But?"

"But, all three slots are empty. No Zed PMs here; at least not any more."

"The Wraith?" asked Teyla, noting the multiple sets of tracks in the dusty floor.

"I doubt it," advised their Ancient power expert. "The dust on these isn't much disturbed, nothing got forcibly removed, and there's nothing indicating this place had power any time recently. The facility should have detected Major Lorne's ATA when..."

Ronon sensed Royce shifting his weight ever so slightly, but the scientist gave no other indication he was anything more than wet and cold.

"Any chance they left spares lying around?"

"Unlikely," explained McKay, pointing back to the rooms they'd just searched. "More likely, the Ancients pulled the plug when they emptied out everything else in here. This looks like a pretty well-planned shutdown, not a quick escape or a Wraith scavenge."

Sheppard's voice contained the same frustration they all felt at the lack of a jackpot here. "Well, let's check the last of the rooms, just in case they forgot something important."

Working their way back toward the main room, they found that the final room off the corridor was actually an anteroom to another. The doors had been forced, recently if the scuff patterns in the dust were any indication. Everyone but McKay instantly brought their weapons up, in case something was still in there. Silently counting down, Ronon and Sheppard simultaneously stepped in and swept the room for any surprises.

"Clear," came the invitation quickly, and the team stepped into a room relatively crammed with Ancient consoles and equipment banks.

"Can you get it working, Rodney?"

"Not likely; there's no power and it looks like the Wraith did take a hammer to this stuff."

"So that means 'five minutes'?"

"More or less," said the kid in the candy shop, already fussing over various interfaces around the trashed room, trying to find a friendly one.

Six minutes later, he'd managed to rig one relatively intact console to his tablet, feeding a little power from the latter, in the hopes of getting some response from the larger, older unit. First dimly, and with a few taps, more brightly, a small screen began streaming text as it simultaneously downloaded.

"Doc?" Sheppard motioned Royce over to share in the discovery.

McKay and Royce both read the quickly scrolling text, more alike than they'd admit as their eyes danced back and forth like the light reflecting on their faces.

"Well that doesn't make any sense," observed McKay.

"What?" asked Ronon.

"This facility was working on one-way wormholes," he repeated with a look of disappointed disbelief on his face.

"Aren't all wormholes one-way?" reminded Sheppard.

"A moot point, Colonel," stated Royce, his professional tone letting on none of the disdain his face showed toward the other scientist. "With a little more attention to his elided declensions, my esteemed colleague would notice this passage actually describes research on 'single anchor' wormholes."

"What?" exclaimed McKay, enthralled by the possibility that the day's trials weren't a dead end, yet incredulous at the possibility of having made a translation mistake. He shoved at Royce, trying to get a better look at the original text again.

Royce did not give an inch, and instead shoved back, "Excuse you."

"Doctors!" shouted Sheppard, not keen on a geek turf war at that moment. Maybe later, with a proper betting pool and some beer.

With a mutual glare, the scientists turned back to the console. Royce narrated as McKay scrolled desperately for elusive vindication, "The facility log describes a project exploring the creation and control of traversable wormholes with only a single fixed end. Not 'one way,' but 'one gate_'_ wormholes."

McKay mouthed variations on "O. G. W.," before shaking his head, and returning to the console.

"There's another facility on…" Royce pulled up a file on his own tablet and tapped a few keystrokes, "Meerol, the sister planet in this system."

"They're a pair?"

"That's why it's one of so few systems to have two gated worlds…" McKay synthesized aloud, "Of course, it makes sense. The two planets are near enough to make short-range tests relatively simple. And two gated worlds made travel or communication between research sites fairly quick and easy, faster than Jumper flight."

"But why is the lab so far from the Gate?" asked Sheppard, joining McKay in one of their signature rapid fire external processing exchanges.

"From what's described here, it seems the two labs are identical to one another, each the intended target site of the other planet's Gate. The distance from the Gate probably has something to with making sure they didn't accidently connect to the other planet's Gate, instead of creating an independent destination at the target lab."

"So our black box theatre was where the wormhole from Meerol's Gate was supposed to end up?"

"And vice-versa, yes."

"But I'm back to why would you want to have open-ended wormholes? Or whatever you want to call them! It'd still only be one-way, right?"

"True, but it literally opens a universe of new destinations; your travel options would no longer be restricted only to worlds with Stargates. It would be a similar leap in capability as from Goa'uld ring transporters to Asgard beaming technology, with the added advantage that where beaming is limited in range and to line-of-site, this could get you virtually anywhere."

"Great military advantage too. You could drop in weapons or troops with no way for your enemy to expect when or where an attack will come, so no ready way to shield or block it," added Ronon, demonstrating that he clearly understood the fundamental application of the technobabble.

"True," nodded Teyla, "But as John said, it would be a one-way trip. Whether the wormhole remained open or closed, there would be no way to return."

"An attractive way to get rid of something or someone," offered McKay flatly, looking directly at Royce, and pleased at himself for the clever dig.

"Or waste disposal more generally," quipped Royce, smiling back at him. "Besides, you could always dial again from the origin point, if this application of wormhole technology is even limited by the standard thirty-eight minute limit."

McKay waved away the supposition, "I don't think lacking a destination gate would increase the wormhole duration. If anything it would likely decrease because, if possible at all, the computational and raw power demands are nearly infinite, even by Ancient standards. And it's risky; without detailed knowledge of the destination point, you could open a wormhole in the middle of something solid, in mid-air or outer space."

"Still good for getting rid of someone undesirable," shrugged the Satedan.

McKay seemed offended on the long-dead engineers' behalf. "I really doubt the Ancients would have put all this effort into some type of roulette penal or trash hauling system! No, as we know it, the Stargate system is a fixed-endpoint travel network; if they got this working…" His eyes grew wide again as he considered the literally endless possibilities.

"Well, did they?" cut Sheppard to the point.

"I don't know!" grated McKay, glancing around the room with an exaggerated gaze. "They didn't exactly leave any 'Congrats, R&D team!' banners when they packed up this place." Checking the download status, he gestured to Royce and added, "Carrot Top and I will search the data for the Ancient equivalent of 'eureka!,' and let you know as soon as possible."

The radio cut-off everyone's possible response, "Colonel Sheppard?"

"What is it, Ndele?"

"We've got Dart sounds, sir. It's a good bet the Wraith know we're here."

"Roger that; we're on our way." Turning to the tense team, he ordered, "OK, kids, let's pack up and get topside. The hell I'm fighting my way out of the bottom of a well…"

"Looks like I got most of what's still here to get," narrated McKay to no one in particular. "If I had more time, maybe…"

"'Life-sucking insectoids,' Rodney," reminded the team leader as he hustled past gruffly.

The team needed little extra encouragement to make a hasty exit and slip back into the forest toward their waiting Jumper, as the high-pitched whines increased overhead.

* * *

NOTES

1. _Instinct _and_ Conversion_ (SGA 2.07 and 2.08).

2. _The Storm_ (SGA 1.10).

3. The deadly pathogen from _Hot Zone _(SGA 1.13).


	5. Day Seven

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY SEVEN**

Recognizing the familiar bootfall two days later, Weir didn't even look up from her desk immediately. "How did this visit go, John?"

"Depends on whose side you're on," muttered Sheppard, as he dropped into a chair opposite her, and draped his arms and head over their respective edges in quick, exhausted poses.

"So I take it the Wraith were pretty exhaustive in their cull on Meerol as well? And, the Ancient lab there didn't provide any more clues on the single gate wormhole project?"

Sheppard looked up at her from peeling the cotton ball and medical gauze from inner arm, confident the standard post-mission blood draw had stopped bleeding. "Correct on both counts; but I was actually talking about McKay vs Royce."

"Royce didn't—"

"No," her colleague assured with a grin. "I think the power punch on Meerux convinced Rodney against going toe-to-toe with him again; but that hasn't stopped them from going brain-to-brain. And I've heard the Marines actually have a pool going on when it will come to blows, not verbs." He didn't share his disappointment at not being able to participate, given the inappropriateness of such behavior by the base's military commander. "Honestly, I think it's settling into more of a mutual amusement between them."

Elizabeth gave him a knowing lift of the eyebrow.

"And…, I've talked to Rodney about taking responsibility for improving their professional rapport, rather than goading Royce with nicknames like 'Ginger' and 'Annie.' In fact, between missions, they've already spent a few hours, unsupervised, working together on the wormhole database without serious incident." _So it really is just amusement for the rest of us._

"Anyway, before they culled the planet clean, the Wraith shot up the Meerol outpost pretty well; so no new intel. I think Rodney's going to let Royce shoulder translating the rest of the Meerux logs; then they'll do some searches in the Ancient database here to see if there's any related info."

"Any sign of our two people grabbed on the first visit?"

Sheppard shook his head regrettably. They both knew that window of opportunity closed pretty quickly, given the number of Wraith and cullees involved, not to mention the likelihood that Atlantis personnel would have high priority for royal audiences once identified on the menu. Each of them had a difficult letter to write at some point soon, and some unluckier person on Earth would get to hand deliver each to the families.

"Levine's back on full duty status; so that leaves just Lorne on the injured list. Well, him and Royce's head."

"His head? I thought you said he and Rodney-"

Sheppard waved away her concern, "No, it looks like the latest side effect of 'Prince Harry's' reaction to gate and transporters is bad headaches. Not fun for him, but much less messy for the rest of us."

Weir grimaced and grinned at the news, before chuckling, "He does look a bit like the younger Windsor, doesn't he?"

Sheppard gave her a thumbs-up, still not having moved from his post-mission repose.

"And 'Michael'?" Weir asked, switching subjects.

Sheppard opened one eye and grinned sheepishly at her, "You know about that?"

"M-hmmm," she nodded. "Rodney was just here, pointing out that you'd taken the liberty of naming yet another Pegasus galaxy denizen without his input."

"Yeah, Ronon and I stopped by after the last Meerux post-mission medical check. He's still fairly pissed about being tied down."

"Presuming that last comment was about the Wraith, and not Rodney, I'll still let you deal with your colleague's feeling left out of naming rights. Consider giving him first shot at something? For all our sakes?"

"I'll try to remember to."

"As for 'Michael,' Carson and I agree that it's probably prudent to limit the number of people who know about him. Whether successful or not, we don't need stories of the 'Wraith walking among us' to set people off."

"Yeah, the Visitors on _V_ creeped me out when I was little. Hot leaders, but the whole mouse-crunching and face-tearing stuff… almost too much," squirmed Sheppard.

Weir rolled her eyes at the little boy who really hadn't grown up in some ways, and chose to ignore the pubescent nostalgia. "So, if that's agreement, we'll limit knowledge of the treatment to your team and the necessary medical and security staff; strictly need-to-know. In other news, we got a friendly follow-up check-in from Radim and the Genii…"

* * *

**DAY NINE**

A few days later, Royce stood in the same office doorway, not quite at attention, but not exactly as casually as most of the civilian staff tended to carry themselves. "You asked to see me, Dr Weir?"

She knew he was from a military family, and had worked much of his career in contact with a lot of armed services personnel globally. Even if she hadn't known, she might have guessed given her own experience working with them, even the relatively casual military culture in this galaxy.

"Come in, Max," she said, smiling warmly and gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her desk. As he moved to sit she set a mug and thermos on the front edge of the desk, and walked around to join him. "And again, please call me Elizabeth. I brought up some tea from the cafeteria; if I remember correctly, you take it with milk and sugar?" As he nodded appreciatively, she poured him some, took her own coffee cup from the desk, and settled into the other chair.

Royce sipped politely at the proffered mug, and looked expectantly at the Expedition leader, not really sure whether or why he'd been called to the principal's office.

"You're not in trouble," assured Weir as if mind-reading. "When my schedule and events allow, I like to check in with all new, non-military personnel after they've had a chance to settle in for a bit. It's gotten harder as the Expedition's grown in size but I like having at least some direct connection to the research work that's being done and the people doing it. While you haven't been here very long, I know your first couple of weeks have been a doozey for you. So I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing."

Sitting up a little in the seat, he reported, "Well, prior to turning over the first batch of translated and indexed Meerux logs to Dr McKay this morning, I was able to review most of the initial Pegasus language files while aboard the _Daedalus_, and have requested all of Dr Jackson's work on Ancient. Dr Renard provided an excellent overview of the current peoples and politics once I was here and I have scheduled some time to interview Teyla Emmagan about her knowledge of Pegasus languages. With her permission and assistance, I'd like to spend some immersion time with the Athosians, and likely some other off-world speech communities, to experience their interactions first-hand."

Elizabeth nodded appropriately as he continued his litany of accomplishments and plans, wondering if he realized how much his work ethic paralleled that of McKay. They'd discuss the Canadian soon enough, but she probably wouldn't bring up the comparison just yet.

"I have some initial sketches for adapting the parsing architecture of some experimental translation software to work on Ancient-derived languages," continued Royce. "If Dr McKay's software engineers are even slightly easier to work with than he, we should have some rudimentary translation protocols fairly quickly. I'll then turn to debugging that core, and begin gathering vocal samples from our most frequent native contacts in order to start on a real-time, two-way vocal system. We'll integrate all of that into the basic OCR software you're already using here in the City, and you should have some fairly robust translation gear within a few months, maybe sooner.

"I'd also wanted to speak with you about developing and offering a training series on at least basic Ancient and Wraith for base personnel. The translation software will be nice; but the gadgets might not always be available, and nothing beats a person's speed, intuition and battery independence."

Weir nodded throughout his comprehensive status report, genuinely impressed at what the one-man department had been able to accomplish and plan already, and very much looking forward to a more user-friendly, quick and comprehensive way of accessing the Ancient database. But all this was in weekly reports and so she moved beyond. "And how are _you _doing, Max?"

He lowered the mug and looked at her, unsure how to answer, "I'm sorry?" _I thought I just told you how I was doing_.

Weir smiled, always amused that people were shocked when the boss showed concern and interest in them as people, not just as work producers. Their work was important, to be sure, but she also knew that her teams were more than their output. "I'm pleased to know how your work is going; but I also want to know how you are: How are you adjusting to being in a new place, a new planet? How are you getting on with your new co-workers? In your case specifically, how's your stomach?"

"Um, OK. In order: fine; fine and improving, I suppose. I've managed to get the transporter and Gate reactions down to a slight headache with a dash of mild queasy, like when an airplane drops suddenly."

"That's good to hear, for your stomach and our floors," she laughed, sipping her coffee, and sitting back comfortably in the seat. As casually as she could, she noted, "I understand that you've been spending a lot of time in the Infirmary with Major Lorne."

His expression didn't change from its friendly nonchalance. "As I told you before, we've known each other since high school."

"You're both from the Bay area; but you're a year older and didn't go to the same schools." She took pride in knowing her people well; but had refreshed her knowledge of the details in advance of this meeting.

"_He's_ from San Francisco," corrected Royce. "We met when my father was transferred there, and I had just started university…"

_

* * *

_

Early June 1991

"_Hey Maximus," stage-whispered the breeze- and beer-ruddied trip organizer. "How do I tell Giselle that I think she's really hot?" He smiled over at the brunette wrapped in his letterman jacket by the fire as "Summertime" played on the radio nearby,(__1)__ perhaps loud enough to cover the current conversation._

_Max took a breath, pretending to think hard, and slowly instructed, "Well, Curtis, I'd say, 'Giselle, I… think… you're… really… hot.'" Out of the corner of his eye, he was pleased to see his tentmate for the trip, Evan, chuckling silently at the exchange._

_The wanna-be-lover punched him in the shoulder, "Get serious, dickweed. How do I say it in French?"_

_Max considered answering literally again—"il"—but didn't want to draw out this thrilling interaction any longer than necessary. So, he fed the proper lines, again speaking slowly, repeating and correcting as his student attempted to reproduce the sounds, "Alright, tell her, 'Quand je pense a vóus, je me touche.'"_

_With the sounds memorized, Curtis smiled greedily, if not gratefully, took the two beers Max was holding, and headed over to apply his alcohol and testosterone-primed language of love. The other three couples around the fire were already too self-occupied to notice or care._

_"Let's give the lovebirds some space," whispered Evan, tapping Max on the shoulder and nodding off toward the sea view. Max grabbed two fresh bottles from the cooler, and followed the other fifth wheel out of the campsite._

_They climbed up a steep trail to the top of the cliff overlooking the camping cove, and up the rolling hill atop it so that they had a wide view of the surrounding ridge and waters. Eyes adjusted to the dark, and well out of earshot of the camping couples, Evan sat down on the crest and asked quietly, "So, what did you really tell him to say?"_

_"What makes you think I told him something different than he asked for?" asked Max innocently as he settled down beside Evan, handed over a bottle, and stared out at the Bridge and ocean._

_"Because Curtis is a chauvinist ass, who made it clear that he only invited you up here to serve his salacious purpose; and despite those facts, you seemed far too eager to help."_

_Max looked a little pleased at being caught, and at having someone to share the joke with; he might even have blushed slightly—it was hard to tell in the dim light. He smiled guiltily and admitted, "He's going to tell her, 'When I think about you I touch myself.'"_

_Evan snorted the beer he was drinking, as they both laughed. "Nice! Good song too."(__2)_

_The foghorns on the Golden Gate blew a prolonged agreement, as they both chuckled at the likely international debacle back at the campfire._

_"So how DO you know Mr Smoothtalker?" Evan asked the polyglot when his hearing had cleared._

_"He works with my roommate's girlfriend."_

_"Which makes you…?"_

_"At his service, apparently. She—the roommate's girlfriend—said they had an extra spot on this camping trip to Kirby Cove; and I love coming over to the Headlands."(__3)_

_"Me too; what's your favorite spot? Mine's…"_

_"...Muir Woods,"(__4)__ they said simultaneously. Max offered his bottle for a toast to "good taste."_

_Taking his swig, Evan pursed his lips and croaked, "They could have sprung for a little better booze. Charming and cheap; I guess that's Curtis."_

_Max nodded, and returned the question, "So apparently I'm along to help Curtis sweet talk his way into the exchange student's designer miniskirt; what's your connection to this expedition?"_

_"I played baseball with the guys; and as the only single stallion in the herd at the moment, I'm guessing I help round out the headcount your required presence created."_

_"Well thanks for taking on your tenth of the trip expenses, and for keeping me company while they're all… busy."_

_Tipping his bottle toward Max, Evan assured, "Ditto. I just hope I can keep up with our multilingual Berkeley boy."_

_Max smiled uncomfortably, "I'm not some kind of hippie brainiac, Evan. I've only lived in Berkeley two years, and only one of those was I _at_ Berkeley."_

_"Sorry, I just don't know a lot of college freshmen fluent in French."_

_"Technically, I'm a sophomore now," Max smiled, then sighed, took a deep draught, and explained, "Besides, you're pretty bright yourself…"_

"_What makes you say that?"_

"_Well, you used the word 'salacious' correctly, after drinking at least three cheap beers. And, you can't be too thick to get into the Air Force Academy. When you start this fall, in addition to getting a significant haircut, you'll learn that military brats well-develop social skills and survival attitudes from a life on the move. My travels just happened to include a number of years in Europe and south Asia."_

_Evan flashed a smile at his new acquaintance, "If you're trying to make yourself sound more like a normal American teenager, you're not doing very well…"_

_Max leaned into Evan hard, shouldering him for his "Touché." Evan pushed back, leaving them huddled closer against the sea breeze. After a few moments of silence, Max continued, "My dad's Army medical at the Presidio;(__5)__ what's your excuse for going military?"_

_"You mean in general, or especially now, with the war?"_

_"Desert Storm's gone well for the US so far; but we've only been in Iraq five months. My dad's told me about some of the injuries…" Max's tone was mournful._

_"Aw, we've known each other all of five hours and you're worried about me already? I'm touched," the cadet-to-be mewed._

_Max scooted away indignantly and started to stand up, "Well fuck you too, asshole."_

_Evan's grin dropped away; and he grabbed Max's arm before he could go far, "I'm sorry, Max. You asked a fair question." He let go, and gestured back to the open space beside him, asking, "Please sit."_

_On considering his options—the City in the distance and the obnoxious couples back at the campfire, Max sighed and sat down again, but not too close. They sat in silence for another few minutes, Max determined to make Evan reconnect, and Evan not sure how to._

_Finally, he decided a little confession of his own, a reciprocated concern, might help. "I have four years until I'd get my commission, and things would have to be going pretty damn bad for cadets to get shipped out in the meanwhile." He scratched at the dirt before his feet with his nearly empty bottle, "But that doesn't mean I haven't thought about the risks."_

_Max watched as his scratching became slower and more mechanical as Evan drifted away in thought._

"_I've always loved to fly, from being thrown over my dad's head as a little guy, to the rush you can get on rollercoasters and even biking some hills here in the City. We didn't have enough for me to take flying lessons; and the idea of shuttling a hundred and fifty passengers between SFO and Denver twice a day doesn't really appeal, so I had to find some other way to get airborne." He looked up toward the cloudy sky, his face alive with the thought of being up in the midst of it._

"_And, I guess it's just- it's just that when I think about it, I've lived a pretty sheltered, comfortable life, you know: Good school, fun sports, loving family, never really needing for anything. I mean, 'quakes and curveballs have been my only real worry... When I looked ahead at life, even as soon as college, I suppose I'd like a little adventure, to see the world, and to give something back. And the Academy provides all that for free; the Air Force in particular from the relative safety of 30,000 feet—no being the shock troops, no base that might sink out from under you, no living in a foxhole. No offense!" he added quickly, realizing his audience was an Army son._

_He looked up to see Max smiling with him, amused by the well-known inter-service comparisons, and hopefully impressed at the soul-baring. "Well, congratulations on the appointment, flyboy; that speaks even more highly of you."_

_Evan pursed his lips, clarifying, "I didn't mean it like that; I wasn't trying to brag about my privilege or patriotism…"_

_Max pushed against Evan's defensive shoulder, "I didn't take it that way either." He paused a moment, and then clarified, "I meant 'even more highly' than I already thought of you for following your passions, and for finding a way to make that do some good too. Living on Army posts all over the world, I've met lots of guys who are all about the guts and glory of warriorhood, the Hollywood angles; it sounds like you've got a much leveler head about it. That's cool."_

_The admission and admiration hung between them again, until Evan asked the logical reciprocal question, "And you, no following in your father's bootsteps?"_

_"Noooo," laughed Max, perhaps a little too quickly. "Med school involves lots of blood, thank you. And I don't think the military and I would be a good match; camo's not really my color, and our… interests don't line up." He didn't elaborate further as he used his bottle to expand on the sand drawings Evan had begun. "Having seen a lot of the world already, I'll leave the jetting about to you. Me, I'd like to settle down for a while; so I'm going to stay in Berkeley, _at_ Berkeley, and study languages. The fact that people are able to communicate with one another at all, just by pushing air through our lips in lots of different ways– it's silly I guess, but I just find that fascinating."_

_"You and I seem to communicate pretty well," blurted Evan._

_Max looked over at him with an agreeing, appreciative look. "For two buzzed teenagers who'll likely be playing chaperone or couples' counselors for the rest of the weekend. Quite the team, we," he smiled, raising a mock toast and then bucking into Evan's shoulder again._

_Dropping his own largely empty bottle, Evan pushed back playfully with his hands, toppling Max over and laughing as the sweat-shirted form tumbled a few rotations down the slope. Recovering from the roll, Max beamed back at him, and charged up the hill. As Evan turned to make a getaway, Max shouted, "Oh no you don't!" and hurled himself at the center of the escaping black sweater. Struggling and laughing, their human knot tumbled several yards down the ridge before stopping in a flat spot._

_Conveniently when he found himself momentarily pinned, Evan stopped struggling and said seriously, "Look, I can see some stars poking through over there." One hand tentatively released, he pointed out to sea, where the clouds and fog were indeed breaking. Despite suspicion that this might be the oldest trick in the book, Max trusted and rolled off alongside Evan so they both lay looking offshore._

_They caught their breath beside each other, Evan again getting a faraway look in his eyes. Max watched the clear joy that the thought of being 'up there' brought this new friend_. I wonder if that's what I look like when I start talking about subjunctive moods and subject-predicate agreement?_ he wondered to himself, before finally suggesting outloud, "You'll be up among them soon enough; don't be in such a hurry to get off the ground, flyboy."_

_Evan smiled back at him contentedly, before pondering, "You know, if we're going be friends, you're gonna need a nickname too, Maximus."_

* * *

"Well, half a lifetime is pretty significant whatever the details," shrugged Weir, still commenting on the acquaintance. "Major Lorne made some space assignment recommendations; but otherwise, he didn't mention that he knew you when reviewing the incoming personnel files."

"I didn't know he was assigned here until our orientation en route. Even beyond classified info, the Major is a pretty private person, Elizabeth. Beyond what's listed in his dossier, what do you know about him?"

"He has a very dry sense of humor."

"That he does," smiled Royce. "What else?"

Weir smiled too, and realized that she knew virtually nothing about her military second-in-command, except what was contained in his personnel file. He was efficient, personable, and well-liked; but he didn't tend to eat or otherwise spend down time with the other Expedition leadership. She supposed he was either working when she, Sheppard and the others were off-duty, or perhaps that he preferred to maintain strong ties with those under his own command. Sheppard's team tended to hang out together even when not on missions; many of the teams did.

Royce interrupted her rationalization. "You can't think of anything, can you?" he smiled, chuckling and setting down his empty mug. "I'm not surprised; he can be very guarded sometimes. May I ask why you're interested?"

She set her own cup down, and intentionally opened up her body language. "It's not a problem, Max…"

"'It'?" he asked sharply, a mix of irritation and concern in his face.

"What I meant was, that I'm actually very glad to see the connection and loyalty you have to Evan. As far from help and home as we all are here, those strong bonds are often what get us through tough spots. I've spent lots of healthy hours in the Infirmary, fretting over members of this Expedition—my friends too; we all have. And while I hate any of us ever having to do it, again, it shows the strength of the relationships, the team we have here." She leaned toward him, hands clenched together to emphasize the point. "So, I'm glad to see that you arrived with the beginnings of that vital support network already in place, and I am sorry you're having to sit watch so soon. He's a good man; and I'm sure a valued friend."

He nodded knowingly at her explanation; and she was again appreciative of his military upbringing. He 'got' the importance of the bonds on which life-and-death communities were based. She hoped that history would also help him understand the next topic she needed to discuss. "And speaking of relations, I also wanted to ask you about—"

"McKay," he stated with disdain and a knowing, slightly smug, smile. "I understand that it's not appropriate to deck your division head: professionalism, respect for authority, and all that." Now he sat forward in his chair, hands out in explanatory emphasis. "And despite his… his overbearing pride, I think I have since demonstrated that I am quite capable of containing the desire to throttle him under most circumstances. But, Elizabeth, on Meerux he—"

"Stepped over the line when he disrespected Major Lorne, I know. Colonel Sheppard told me he had it coming."

"If he really intends to pursue a physical assault case, I know of more than a dozen individuals who'd likely be ready to counter with verbal harassment charges against him; many of them can cite multiple instances," he gushed defensively.

Weir chuckled at the likely kernel of truth in that claim, but smiled and waved that a class action would not be needed.

Satisfied that she understood his motivations, Royce slumped back in his chair and braced for whatever the consequence.

"Ronon also made a point of stopping by and putting in a word on behalf of your left hook too," she half-smiled. "Seems you've more than just the one friend here already."

Royce blushed slightly, likely more from humility than guilt; but she still needed to say it, for the record. "Nonetheless, let's not have any more fisticuffs with our colleagues, shall we?"

"No matter much he deserves it," Royce promised.

* * *

**DAY TEN**

"Hey, Max," grinned McKay, looking around the linguistics lab with an almost smarmy wonder. "I was in the neighborhood, and thought I'd drop in to see how the translation and search work was coming, how you were doing. You know-"

Royce looked up at him suspiciously. "I email you a detailed status update on all my projects every day, per divisional policy."

"Right. Well, I also make it a point to touch base regularly with everyone under my command, just to maintain that all-important human contact in an increasingly inhuman galaxy!" he smiled uncomfortably.

"Oh, and the cynic in me just assumed that Colonel Sheppard or Dr Weir ordered you to be nice to me, Rodney. Can I call you 'Rodney'?"

"OK." McKay cleared his throat and moved on, having technically made the interpersonal inquiries he'd promised as outreach. "And while I'm here, why don't you just fill me in on how today's work is going? You know, in lieu of a formal email today. We'll let that slide, just this once, just between us…"

Royce tried not to laugh aloud at the obviously excruciating effort his boss was making, whatever the motivation. Turning on and removing sticky notes covering a large computer monitor he normally just used as a bulletin board, he brought up the dense Ancient passage he was working on. "I was just verifying a reference in the Lantean database to another possible lab where they _may_ have been working on a technology related to the single-anchor project." He pointed out a text sequence near the middle of the passage.

"Really?" asked McKay, genuinely interested.

"Really. If I'm understanding the technical details correctly, they seem to have determined the power and control challenges of the initial idea were too great; so they turned to creating a simple targeting booster or something…"

"A cheat?"

"You're the physicist," shrugged the language scholar.

"Go on."

Royce scrolled the text and pointed out another passage for McKay to read. "Basically, it would be a simple device—I guess a beacon of some kind—toward which the single-Gate wormhole could be directed."

Reading quickly and extrapolating, that physicist's brain jumped into overdrive. "And the beacon could be launched as sort of a long-distance probe from ships or even another Gated world. Not quite as liberating as needing nothing at the receiving end, but a lot less intensive than seeding Stargates, and a lot safer than truly single-anchor wormholes."

Royce took some guesses of his own. "This would cut down on those pesky computational, power and control issues?"

"Well, yeah!" eye-rolled McKay. "Does it say what they built? Or where? And whether it was successful?" He looked desirously at Royce's laptop.

"I was just getting to that part of the entry…," unintentionally teased Royce, stepping back to his computer. "I'd be happy to email you the relevant passage indices if you don't want to wait on my translation."

Eager to get into the technical possibilities himself, McKay almost agreed, before remembering the stern admonition that had sent him here. He put his outstretched hands back in his pockets, swallowed and smiled politely. "That's a generous offer, but I'd be… happy… to wait on your translation as part of today's status update."

Royce stared at him without expression, perhaps counting how long it took the benevolent leader to realize his rapid report renege.

Instead, McKay seemed to have accomplished or tolerated all he thought he could from their meeting. As he slowly backed out of the lab door, he continued grinning and assuring them both, "Well, thanks for the heads up… I feel like we've made some real progress here today, Max. On us, I mean. Our professional relationship, that is."

Royce still had not moved from the neutral stance behind his work table. "I'm touched by your interest in me and my work, Rodney; it means a lot, really. But… how can I miss you if you won't go away?"

He chuckled aloud as he thumbed on his music, and sent McKay the referenced passages in advance of the daily summary, knowing the physical scientist would likely be consumed with curiosity until he could see them for himself.

* * *

NOTES

1. PLAYLIST: DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince (Will Smith), _Summertime_, released 20 May 1991.

2. PLAYLIST: The Divinyls' _I Touch Myself_ was a #1 pop song in the US in spring of 1991.

3. MAP: Primitive campground site on the north, seaward side of the Golden Gate Bridge, just north of San Francisco.

4. MAP: National Monument north of Kirby Cove.

5. MAP: The Presidio of San Francisco, now a park, was active as a US Army base and home to the Letterman Army Medical Center until 1995.


	6. Day Eleven

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY ELEVEN

As lead physician on the overnight, "C" shift, Keller spent most of her time overseeing paperwork, restocking, lab work backlogs, and conducting the occasional odd hour, off-world team return physical. She understood that working graveyard was just part of the system as in any workplace—newbies started at the bottom, and worked their way up to more desirable, daylight hours.

Given the wild things that happened in this galaxy—a location she still had trouble actually getting her mind around each time she remembered it—she really didn't mind having the quiet assignment. Kidnappings, hostages become martyrs, nuclear explosions, coups, cullings, collapsing hidden labs –and that was all in her first week! She'd take the patient care, culture prep and chart review any day; she honestly didn't know how Dr Beckett handled all of that plus off-world missions, and now the top secret project that had him in all hours of late. Nope, she'd take "C" shift lead over the Head of Medicine slot any day of the week, and twice on Sundays.

This particular comfortable midnight, she was starting rounds after checking on some lab work, when she heard the soft strum of a guitar and whispered tenor rolling out of one curtained corner of the long-term ward. She smiled as she gradually worked her way in that direction, knowing from the patient's charts, from her colleagues on the morning and afternoon shifts, and from her own observations, that Max Royce had begun to visit Evan Lorne briefly first thing in the morning, to swing by around lunch every day, and to come by for his longest visit late each evening when the City, and the Infirmary, were quietest. Sometimes he brought a loaned guitar to play softly, or a book to read aloud, or a plate of aromatic food to engage various senses. But most often he just talked to the unconscious officer.

She had overheard a variety of what she assumed was news and stories about Atlantis, Royce himself and other people Lorne knew: How the civilian had driven up to San Jose to fly to Colorado Springs for the mission staging, and had stayed with "Natalie." How it was good, as always, to see "the boys." And how "Pate" was now speaking incessantly and in full sentences, and "Coop" had frequently told his little brother to "shut it" when not asking about "Uncle Evan." How, right before leaving for this mission, he'd heard that someone named "Curtis" had been arrested. Again. This time for embezzlement.

How he'd been deciphering some Ancient research from Meerux, and the information gleaned could prove incredibly useful, such that Evan's trip there was paying off. How through some of that travel and teamwork, he now reacted less to Gate and transporter travel than he did to Dr McKay—neither being something aspirin couldn't handle. How Ronon and Sheppard had invited him to join them on their morning runs on occasion. And, how shocked and disappointed he was that, despite a sizable presence from Commonwealth nations on the Expedition, no one had been able to procure any malt vinegar so they could eat their chips properly.

Other times Royce spoke to Lorne entirely in other languages, none of which she or the other night staff had been able to match to any speakers on Atlantis. Whatever he was saying, the range of emotions was similar—from quiet laughter, to possible pleas –all clearly aimed at reaching out, reaching the friend and colleague who had shown good signs of physical healing, but none of consciousness in more than a week.

On one occasion, when he thought no one as looking, she happened to see Royce gently take Lorne's good hand and place it on his own chest –she presumed giving one more external stimulus in a desperate effort to connect with and wake his friend.

The only other consistent element to these visits was that Royce ended each with the same, simple adverb, "Verily."

_Such devotion_, she surmised. _And from stories of the various Atlantis teams, not so uncommon here on this edge of the universe…_ While perhaps commonplace, it still deserved to be recognized and rewarded; so tonight she made a detour to the break station in the back corner of the Infirmary.

A few minutes later, she waited until the strumming had stopped before she stepped into the screened alcove. "Knock, knock, Max," she said, pulling over a mobile cart and setting the mug on it. "I brought you some tea."

"Thanks, Jenn," he smiled honestly, setting down the guitar and sipping at the steaming cup.

"None of us recognizes the songs or languages tonight; but we sure do like them," she beamed quietly. "And it's made all the patients sleep a lot easier. If it wasn't so calming to the staff—who need to stay awake, we might offer you a steady gig in here at bedtime."

Royce blushed at the compliment, as she checked Lorne's instruments, bandages and direct vitals. "I didn't realize I had become quite that much a regular in a little more than a week; I should have been getting my card punched…" _Yikes, _he chided himself. _Gotta be more careful from here on out_.

She chuckled. "It's our job to be attentive; and again, nobody minds at all—the Major least of all, I'm sure…"

Holding the mug with both hands and staring past it toward the sleeping figure, the frequent visitor asked, "Jenn, can he hear me? Does he know we're here? Or am I just doing this for me and everyone else?"

Keller sighed, came around the bed and sat down on a stool beside Royce. "I'd like to think so; but we really don't know. He's able to physically register the sounds and other stimuli—his body is definitely responding; but we don't really have any way of knowing whether he's consciously aware of any of it, much less whether he's able to make any sense out of it."

"It sure does make me feel better."

"Then it's worth doing," she reassured, shaking him by the knee.

He smiled back in gratitude for her good wish, if not clinical certainty, not sure why talking with her was so dangerously easy. He reminded himself that discretion was more important that deepening this new friendship.

"You know," she said, daring a little friendly research of her own this quiet night, "On the _Daedalus_, after the whole 'projectile tea incident', you told me you two met on a camping trip; but you never finished the story. What's kept you in touch for another fifteen odd years? Most of us on the Expedition only met here; so your knowing each other for years is pretty rare in the City. Max?"

_

* * *

_

Early June 1991

"_Oy, Prime!" a voice shouted at him from his newly-seated table, as he hurried over to take the drink order._

_Actually looking at the customer for the first time, he stopped in his tracks tableside, "Evan?"_

_Both young men grinned, the sittee's smile lacking only the mild surprise of the standee's._

_"…Don't wear it out."_

_"What are you doing here?" asked Max._

_"Hoping for some good breakfast…?" panned Evan, waving the menu. "Same as everybody else in the place, I'd bet."_

_Max smirked at his sarcasm and fired a volley of his own. "Sir, you know we reserve the right to refuse service to anyone…"_

_"Well, for the time being, I'm wearing both shirt and shoes; I've even thrown pants into the ensemble," he pointed out his dress slacks and finely polished footwear. "And I'm flush with cash from a good night at work. So if you can figure out a way to get me cinnamon raisin toast instead of white with the special, there's an extra quarter tip in it for you…" He smiled a smarmy smile, raised an eyebrow and completed the exaggeration by making a pistol motion with his hands._

_Hand to his hip and faux gum smacking, Max played along, trying not to laugh aloud, "Well, Monsieur Valet d'St Francis, when you come in bragging about that kind of silver, your wish is our command." His laughter overwhelming his flapper accent, he whacked Evan playfully with the menu, and asked, "Regular or decaf?"_

_"Jet diesel—" said Evan, yawning widely as if to emphasize the point._

_"Should've known," drolled Max as he rolled his eyes and headed to place the order._

_A moment later, he dropped off a large mug of steaming coffee and poked the still yawning Evan in the shoulder, before proceeding to take the order of a Japanese couple at the next table. Evan gulped a mouthful of liquid consciousness, and smiled at his neighbors' clear surprise when their waiter addressed them immediately and effortlessly in their native language._

_By the time they had finished chatting excitedly, and Max had checked on a few other tables on his way to submit their order, Evan's was up. Max returned with a platter of crepe, omelet, sausage, hashbrowns and toast, and two brimming mugs. "The tea is mine," he said, "I'll be right back."_

_He did another circuit of his tables, delivering juice and hot drinks to the tourists, and then plopped himself down in the seat across from Evan._

_"Excuse me," mumbled Evan indignantly through a mouthful of his cinnamon raisin toast, "Are the help permitted to dine with the guests?"_

_"Stow the 'tude, car parker. This break is unofficial, and has to be quick." He sipped his tea and glanced up at the counter furtively. "So what brings you to the Squat & Gobble this fine morning?"_

_Evan swallowed his mouthful of carbs, and just managed to say, "What? I can't come visit my new friend at work?" before taking another swig of coffee._

_"I think you just wanted to show off your paramilitary vehicle relocation officer uniform," proposed Max, pointing at the neatly folded jacket and glossy-brimmed hat. "I can see why the prospect of fighter jets and real rank insignia is so appealing to you…"_

_"Har-dee-har-har. I actually wanted to see if you'd ended up with my nesting fry pan; mine didn't come home with me Sunday."_

_"No, I took my dad's old set, and didn't return with anything extra. Sorry."_

_"Oh well, I thought I'd ask."_

_Max set his mug down incredulously. "You made a point of coming all the way over here, just to ask about a mess kit?"_

_"And for breakfast. I didn't have your number; and besides, you're sort of on the way home."_

_"Geary's a straight shot for you; we're a dozen blocks off that."_

_"But I can bike through the park most of the way home. It's probably safer there than on the big streets during morning rush hour." Max did not look convinced or assured. "I'm a big boy; I'll be fine, mom."_

_Both realized at that moment that another apron-wearing form had stopped tableside, with arms full of dirty dishes and a healthy side of unhappy on his face. "I hate to break up this love fest…" No 'but' followed._

_Reacting to the presence, Max jumped to his feet, and made introductions, "Geoff, this is Evan; Evan, Geoff."_

_Evan started to offer his hand, before realizing Geoff had none free to return._

_Instead the newcomer smiled sourly and deduced with thick disdain, "You're the guy from the camping trip this weekend."_

_"Don't be bitter," chided Max. "I asked you, and you didn't want to go. Evan's the reason I didn't jump in the Bay, or throw someone else in."_

_"And speaking of murder, don't you have better things to be doing?" Geoff shook his dish-filled arms for emphasis; and Evan thought he heard him mumble "or people" as he brusquely walked away._

_Eyebrows raised in uncertain amazement, Evan shoved another bite of breakfast in, perhaps rather than comment._

_"Sorry for his highness," offered Max, as he grabbed his own mug. "But I do need to get back to my section. I'll bring you some more coffee in a sec'…"_

_As Evan made short work of the rest of his breakfast, he could see Geoff apparently berating an increasingly irritated and unrepentant Max when the latter stepped into the service area. He clenched his butter knife when Geoff quite obviously and intentionally elbowed Max as he stormed past toward the outdoor seating area. He looked down quickly when Max glanced up to see whether he'd witnessed the exchange; but broached the subject when a stream of steaming coffee started into his cup, "I didn't mean to get you in trouble."_

_"Don't worry about it," said his waiter cheerfully as he pulled the check from his apron and double-checked it. "Himself can't stand not being the sole center of attention; and frankly, I'd much rather talk to you." He set the check on the table, and spoke a little more loudly and over-formally for effect, "I hope you enjoyed your meal, sir; come back anytime." He smiled genuinely and headed onto another round of his section, chatting again with the Japanese couple._

_Evan chugged a last swig of coffee, grabbed his wallet and opened the check. Inside was a blank order slip, with a handwritten note, "Well-dressed gentlemen eat free on my watch. Wed. night house party near Twin Peaks if you can swing by before your shift. Let me know: 415-864-… -Prime."_

_Smiling, he looked up to see his waiter dutifully attending other customers, so he pocketed the check and threw considerably more than a quarter in the sleeve._

_As he walked out, Geoff was coming in from the few curbside tables, and made a point of stepping in front of him, standing eye-to-eye in the doorway. Wearing a bright smile for anyone who might be watching, he offered, "A word of advice, bellhop, you should stick to your cheerleaders and tourist girls." Giving Evan a head-to-toe glance, he added, "Now you'd better get back before your organ grinder realizes you've run off," and was gone._

_Wishing he still had his butter knife, Lorne muttered, "Nice to meet you too, asshole," and then angrily pedaled his way home._

_

* * *

_

A few weeks later, Evan was just locking up his bike outside the same eatery, when a figure bounded out and brushed past him. Glancing up at the discourtesy, he recognized the unruly red hair and purposeful gait, "Max? Max!"

_The figure stopped short, and its shoulders dropped noticeably; but it did not turn around._

"_Max?"_

_Max turned slowly, wearing a forced smile that did not match his flushed cheeks, bloodshot eyes or the bloody towel held under his nose. "Heddo, Eh-ban," he said resignedly._

_Evan was at his side in a heartbeat, "God, Max, are you Ok? What happened?"_

_"I was in a little fight. With Geoff."_

_"Who won?"_

_"He got fired and trespassed; the manager gave me the morning off to clean up and calm down. I'll be fine; thanks…," and he turned to head off again._

_"Whoa, Prime," said the still-uniformed valet, jumping around in front of him. "We need to take a look at that. Your place isn't that far, right? Let's get you there." He started back for his bike, when Max grabbed him by the arm._

_"No. Geoff knows where that is. I just… I don't wanna deal with him right now."_

_Evan knew his friend well enough to know that only part of the story had been shared, but it was enough for the moment. "You're welcome to come to my house, but it's a hike…" Evan glanced around for other, nearer options. "Maybe, we could get some ice…"_

_Max cut him off insistently, "Can we please just get out of here?" He rotated the cloth under his nose, leaned his head back and headed off slowly down the street toward Golden Gate Park. _

_Walking his bike, Evan caught up quickly and gradually eased into guiding them along the park's northern edge._

_They walked in silence for a while, before Evan finally asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" as they angled up onto 21__st__ Avenue._

_"I'm focusing on breathing and not running into you or a tree," came the muffled reply._

_"Was that a 'no'?"_

_"What do you want, Evan, a play-by-play? Fine. Geoff stepped over a line and I called him on it. He threatened me; I wouldn't back down. He got aggressive and got a shot in. Before I could even the score, the manager came in and called the police on him. She knew what had happened, but couldn't very well put me out on the floor looking like this. So here we are. The end."_

_Perhaps silenced by the oversharing, Evan silently waved them into a side gate, propped his bike on the fence, and led Max up the backstairs into a cozy kitchen. "Welcome to Casa Lorne!" _

_Directing the patient to a chair, he wet a washcloth and took over the cleanup despite Max's token resistance. "Don't struggle, you wimp; I can see it better than you can."_

_Evan gently wiped his nose, cheek and chin, gradually cleaning off the smeared and stained evidence of the morning bout. He could see that Max was working hard not to show whatever discomfort or pain he was in. "I know you didn't ask for my opinion, and I'm trying not to be offended by that oversight. I do, however, think Geoff is an absolute prick."_

_Max harrumphed at the obvious statement._

"_I didn't tell you before, but that morning I first came to see you at work, he threatened me to stay away from you."_

_"He what?" started Max, instantly angry and flustered again._

_"Damn, Max!" exclaimed Evan, stepping away slightly as his cleaning and Max's flush brought a huge, growing cheekbone bruise into clear view. "What did he hit you with?"_

_Forcing himself to calm down, Max looked down again and admitted quietly, "A stainless steel commercial freezer; though I guess it was the other way around, technically. Furniture are his weapons of choice."_

_Evan halted his wiping as he dropped his voice. "Has he hit you before?"_

_Without changing his tone or gaze, Max replied simply, "He's hit a lot of people, pugilist bastard."_

_A three-year varsity letterman in American's favorite pastime, Evan's thoughts turned quickly to unsanctioned uses of baseball bats. More immediately, he squatted in front of his guest, intentionally making eye contact. "Max, it's really none of my business; but you are my friend and you are bleeding in my kitchen before eight in the morning… So, are… Were you and Geoff… together?"_

_"What!" gasped Max, too energetically, instantly flush again and with a panic in his eyes. "Geez, Evan… What makes you say that?"_

_"Chill," assured Evan, standing with hands up to soothe or ward off as needed. "It's OK, it doesn't bother me; I have grown up in San Francisco after all… I just asked because, well because he seemed a little over-protective for a coworker—like you were his property or territory. And you do work and live in the Haight. And as much as we've talked these past few weeks, I've heard you mention lots of girl _friends_, but no_ girl_friends…"_

_Max continued to stare at him with a pained expression, clearly not related to the wounds on his face. He glanced at the door, as if calculating whether he could or should get out quickly. But in the end, he stayed put and said nothing; he couldn't._

_"Regardless," Evan dismissed nonchalantly, wiping Max's chin with a determined flourish, and placing a firm but gentle hand on a tense shoulder, "No one gets to do this to my friend…" The promise settled between them as securely as the gesture._

_Evan turned to the sink and rinsed out the washcloth with a displaced vengeance._

_A low voice behind him narrated, "The manager caught him and another waiter messing around in the back yesterday, and word travels quickly on the brunch shift. I broke it off last night, went home and unplugged the phone. So when he showed up at the Gobble this morning, it was bound to end badly." He carefully wiped moist eyes, and looked up at Evan, who was leaning against the counter. "I should have done that a long time ago and, shiner aside, I'm glad it's done."_

_Evan nodded in simple agreement._

_Max's eyes widened with terror, as the risk of his confidence overtook his grief and anger. "Evan, please don't say anything to anyone. Here in the City is one thing, but if my Dad got wind of this…"_

_"I'm not going to say anything. I meant what I said, Prime: no difference to me who you see, as long as they treat you well." He grinned, "So, for the future, I really must insist you go for a little better quality than this last round…"_

_He crossed to the freezer, pulled out a bag of frozen vegetables and handed them over with a fresh hand towel. "And at some point, I'm going to have to teach you how to defend yourself properly against large kitchen appliances…"_

_"I won't have a machine gun or air-to-surface missiles like you, fighter jockey."_

_"OK, so once they teach me hand-to-hand, I'll teach you. I'll need someone to practice on—I mean, _with_… In the short term, I'm going to go change out of my work clothes lest you get me looking like the valet at Crystal Lake. Keep the peas on your eye, and make yourself at home. I'll be right back."_

_As Evan's footsteps faded into the third story, Max wandered toward the front of the house, through a dining room crowded with various paintings—some finished, some not; some very crude, others quite sophisticated. He continued the gallery tour into the den, where a few canvasses sat in mid-sketch or -paint._

"_My mom is an art teacher and painter," explained Evan, coming down the stairs in sweatpants and a George Washington High Eagles t-shirt. He hung on the banister post as if embarrassed by the ubiquitous creativity. "She doesn't really have a proper studio, so the work kind of spreads through the house."_

"_She's very good," offered the world traveler honestly. "But they're not all her?"_

"_The good ones are."_

"_Not true. Like this one," Max squatted down in front of a nearly finished grove of redwoods. "Even with one good eye, I can see that the strokes are different. It's beautiful as well, but you've a second painter in the house." Turning to smile at his host, he suggested, "He should do more."_

_Evan blushed, pausing before finally admitting, "It's not really something a baseball jock or soon-to-be-fighter pilot brags about."_

_"Nonsense, if we could just get you thinking deep thoughts, we'd have a regular Renaissance Man on our hands." He gave Evan an exaggerated, courtly bow. "Sportsman, soldier, artist, scholar…"_

_"Finally, someone who knows how to show a lady some respect when she enters," said a new voice from the base of the stairs. "Pity he wastes it on you, Spansky."(__1)_

_Between them, a lanky girl stopped with her arms crossed, and took stock of the visitor. Her dark hair, bright blues and wide grin made it clear that she was a Lorne, if the sarcasm hadn't made that plain already. As Max stood up, she got a good look at his clothes, frozen goods and face. "What the hell happened to you? Evan, are you bringing home charity cases again? No, this one's too preppy for panhandling…"_

_Max and Evan glanced at the former's blood-stained shirt, and Max guessed his eye and cheek were beginning to discolor even beyond the coldpack. For the second time today with Evan, he suddenly felt very self-conscious despite the clear lack of judgment in his friend's face. This sister, meanwhile, was clearly hard at work on a conclusion about him._

_Injecting a few facts into the mutual assessments, Evan introduced, "Max, this is my sister, Natalie. She's charming, but was just leaving I'm sure..." He gave her a 'be nice' glare, and reminded, "Don't you have screaming children to throw into a pool or something?"_

_Natalie grabbed a large shoulder bag off the couch, and headed toward the front door. "Only if they aren't learning the dog paddle well, and in that case they're already in and going down… I love my job." She smiled sweetly, called out "toodles," and was gone._

_"It's nice to see that your pleasant disposition and gentle spirit run in the family," jibed Max._

_"Well, this gentle spirit is going to lend you something to wear," yawned Evan. "Massacre isn't your color. C'mon…" He waved Max to follow, and led them upstairs to a cramped, trophy-, model airplane- and book-filled bedroom._

_Max laughed aloud as he picked his way into the unkempt space. "Oh, Evan, you are sooo going to have to learn how to keep a room and make a bed properly. This mess will never do in the barracks; the upperclassmen will eat you alive!"_

_As Evan dug through a dresser drawer, Max noticed a backpack in the corner of the room, where it had clearly been thrown and left after their camping trip four weeks previous. And there, clearly sticking out, was a nesting mess kit. Not missing; likely never missing…_

"_Well we have two more days for you to teach me everything I'll need to avoid being on the menu. Besides, this summer it's more boot camp than barracks; I'll likely be rolling more sleeping bags than bouncing quarters off bunks." He turned and held out a stack of clothes to his black and blue and red-stained guest. "I think I'm a little bigger in the waist than you, so it's sweatpants, or I can get you a belt for jeans."_

_Max nodded appreciatively as he accepted the loaners, careful not to hold them too close to the outfit they were to replace._

"_The bathroom's through here," indicated Evan, clearing a path through scattered shirts, shoes and papers. "I share it with Natalie; so all the haircare stuff is hers, FYI."_

"_Wouldn't help you anyway," laughed Max as he delicately tried to get swap shirts in the little adjoining room, "Since they're going to take most of the mane you've got now. All you'll need to do with the buzz is rinse and razor it occasionally."_

_Accompanied by shuffling sounds around the bedroom, Evan shrugged off the advice and yawned, "You know I enjoy camping, and I can learn to march in straight lines as well as the next guy. I'm thinking about Basic as JV baseball spring training. With guns."_

"_Whatever floats your boat. Or flies your plane, I guess?" grinned Max. Hearing Evan sit down on the bed and make no further sounds of tidying, he figured his host was waiting for him to finish changing; so he took advantage of their unseen proximity to put some closure on the morning's subject as he put on the clothes. "I really appreciate your concern this morning; the clean clothes too. Honestly, I was a little nervous about how you'd react if—when you found out… well, about me. I haven't had the best experience with athletes or soldiers, so you can imagine your letterman-cadet status gave me some pause. Thanks for breaking that stereotype, and again for the peas."_

_Max stepped out of the bathroom, and saw its owner had lain back on the twin bed, tired from the overnight shift and apparently from his yammering. "Evan?" Picking his way carefully to the bedside, he saw that the diner waiter had indeed put the hotel valet to sleep in short order._

I'll take this as a sign of your extreme comfort with and trust of me, rather than any judgment on how invigorating my company is,_ he thought._

_Instead, he gently shifted Evan fully onto the bed, pulled the sheet up over him, and scribbled a note on a random scrap of paper: "Ok hero, you've obviously learned the soldier's 'sleep whenever you can' lesson too well. Call me when you're up. I'll help you pack; and I owe you dinner –or at least some vegetables. Thanks again. Really. –Prime."_

* * *

"Max?" Jennifer shook him by the leg again. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry or get you dwelling on it."

Max looked at her, slowly shifting back to the present, where Evan was still asleep; and he was alone with that unbearable fact, even with the new friend sitting beside him.

"And you're obviously zonked too; we need to get you to bed, as you have work tomorrow." She stood, took the empty mug from him, and took his hands to get him to stand. "Tell you what, he's due to have his sheets changed and get a little movement to head off bedsores. If you promise to get some sleep of your own immediately afterwards, I'll let you help me shift him."

He smiled wearily to her, and did his part to gently roll and lift Evan as she removed and replaced the bed linen under and around the patient with practiced ease. "Verily," he whispered as he gently tucked the sheets in, before taking the guitar and his leave.

"Thanks, Jenn," he said, giving her a sincere hug. "From the 'projectile tea incident' onward, you've been there for me. I really do appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," she blushed. "Just promise me one day I'll get a little guitar concert too…"

"Anytime," the late night soloist agreed, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he turned and left the ward.

With a new spring in her midnight step, Keller returned to her happily calm and quiet shift. Late nights really weren't all that bad…

* * *

NOTE

1. Before being settled by an on-screen nametag (SGA's _First Strike _[3.20]), there was a small, but energetic fan movement to have Lorne's given name be "Spansky." Search Youtube for "Kavan and the name Game."


	7. Day Thirteen

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY THIRTEEN

"Good morning everyone," welcomed Weir as the last of those attending the slightly expanded senior staff meeting settled around the conference table two days later.

Having lost interest in most of the agenda immediately, Rodney typed quietly through the beginning of the gathering, only half paying attention as the others gave their updates:

Carson reporting that Major Lorne was healing very well physically—swelling and bruising largely dissipated, and his arm mending nicely; but still no signs of consciousness despite varied external stimulus exercises. "Concerning, but not hopeless," was the ultimate update the McKay thought he heard.

The Head of Medicine continued with an update on their Wraith prisoner, whose moniker had apparently stuck as "Michael." His physiology had settled into a visibly human appearance, though pale and likely having some fundamental atrophy as his musculature adapted; but still a clearly Wraith voice and consciousness. Perhaps the gross physical changes were outpacing the finer details like speech and thought. Should those catch up, Weir wanted to loop in Expedition psychiatrist Kate Heightmeyer, to work on the social aspects of his transition.

Teyla was up next with glad pastoral tidings about preparations beginning for the new growing season on the mainland. She hoped to work with Weir and Sheppard to arrange time to go and help in the planting and eventually the harvest. She assured them all that the Athosians would welcome any additional, friendly hands during this important annual cycle.

Sheppard assured her that they'd find lots of folks who'd enjoy helping out and the change of scenery. And speaking of, almost all of the recent arrivals had completed their off-world certification, with just a few civilians still working on their armory training. Normally, Major Lorne handled that process; but the Colonel was actually enjoying getting to work with the fresh shots for a change. "In fact, one new botanist…"

"Boring! My turn," shouted the Head of Sciences, jumping into the breath break with a flourish of keystrokes on his tablet. Having caught it, he drew their attention to the large monitor on which his just-completed presentation was fading in dramatically. "I take us now from the mundane, to the marvelous: the latest, greatest advance in stargate travel: the Single Anchor Wormhole, or… 'SAWgate'!"

Complete with sound effects, an animated graphic of a table saw blade spun onto the screen, dissolving into the shimmering puddle of an event horizon.

The convened faces blinked at him. Sheppard covered his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. Zelenka rolled his eyes and clutched at the bridge of his nose. Ronon and Teyla looked at one another, confirming that the other didn't catch the reference either.

"Kind of looks like a ninja throwing star too…," mumbled McKay, a bit deflated by the lack of adoring reaction from his colleagues.

"Rodney," smiled Weir pleasantly, "I take it you have an update on the project uncovered on Meerux?"

"Yeah," the physicist acknowledged, inhaling deeply and shifting from hurt to haughty. "You all know that I determined that the pair of labs on Meerux and Meerol was part of an Ancient research project trying to develop… SAWgate travel." He gestured meekly toward the screen again. "On further review of those logs, I have concluded that the Ancients in those facilities were running into exactly the problems I'd anticipated: computational complexity and raw power demands creating a control nightmare of exponential proportions."

"Although, we guess the energy needs could, theoretically, be met by sheer number of ZPMs," interjected Zelenka.

"Theoretically?" asked Weir.

"Yes," explained McKay, retaking the lead of his presentation. "If it were simply a question of quantity, the Ancients would have had no problem stringing together enough Zed PMs. However, controlling that energy, getting it to do what you want is the problem. In the existing network, the Gates and DHDs act like control valves of sorts, giving you multiple control points to channel and focus the wormhole-generating energy. The catch here is that without the second, fixed end in the stargate circuit, the calculations and control software needed to maintain and exactly direct all the single-source energy are mindboggling. Even for my immense mind."

The polite stares around the table reminded him of both the undergraduates he'd taught during his doctoral program and his neighbor's terrier—amicable but clueless; and so he resumed the presentation as he narrated the graphics. "Think about water in a garden hose: the motion of the water is defined by the endpoints, flowing along a pre-determined, if potentially flexible path between the two fixed ends. Open the spigot, and water flows where it's supposed to; no problem, no further action needed. That's a very simple, low-tech metaphor for the Stargate system."

"And the city and ring transporters, as well," added Zelenka.

"Yes," allowed McKay. "But let's say that you now have a high powered-hose, connected only at one end to the water main; it's going to flail all over the place, dangerously, unless you put a lot of attention and energy into holding it steady and on target. Or, better yet, think about how hard it is to control the water stream just by placing your thumb over the end of a hose; aim is clumsy and takes a lot of pressure and precise control to maintain. That's what a Single Anchor Wormhole would be like. More or less."

"What about your hyperdrive?" asked Ronon. "Best I can tell, that doesn't operate with fixed points anywhere along the trip; and we don't get lost."

"Except that the hyperdrive generator is along for the ride between travel points; so we are constantly monitoring and adjusting at every point. Stargates are initiated and terminated from an origin point; they aren't generated or managed mid-stream. Quantum apples and oranges…" McKay had clearly lost interest in trying to dumb down the explanations for the audience. "Look, I could make you all pop-up books trying to explain _why_ it's hard to make it work, but right now just accept that it _is_ really, really, really hard.

"So, _given_ that problem, the logs mention the Ancients' trying some sort of alternative anchors: No Stargates and all the resources that go into building and placing them. Rather, something smaller and simpler, sort of like our locator transponders that allow sensors, including beaming technology, to locate and lock onto our personnel. I suppose they'd figure out some way to plant an anchor on the site where they might want to open a wormhole, and then direct the wormhole there."

"But doesn't that defeat the purpose of opening a wormhole wherever you want? If you've placed an anchor at the destination, doesn't that mean that you're already there?" posed Sheppard.

"Yes; but beacons are relatively much simpler to place than thirty-two tons of naquadah and a DHD. And, while the possibilities are fewer, they still include almost anywhere you've ever been, or can drop or smuggle a beacon."

"And the Ancients got this beacon technology working?"

"We don't know. As we've not come across any known examples, it's obviously not in widespread use; but Royce may have found us a starting place, literally, in the Meerux files."

"Um, Rodney," stage-whispered the Czech physicist, nervously pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "There is the… other issue."

Supportive expressions around the table melted away as they focused on the Head of Sciences.

"Thank you, Radek," the Head sneered, unable or unwilling to meet Weir's raised eyebrows and Sheppard's smirk. He rushed through the obligatory, but undoubtedly unpopular explanation. "Royce also found a passage in the Ancient database noting that, while there was confidence that the necessary control mechanisms could eventually be developed, the entire concept was abandoned nonetheless. With the Wraith's adopting use of the Gates to deny escape to attacked worlds, it was decided that the risk of Gate-based omnipresence falling into their hands was too great, and the benefits for Lanteans insufficient for that risk and its power costs. So, the SAWgate was something they couldn't, or more accurately, didn't make happen."

Sheppard's grimaced glare spoke the gathering's clear feeling of "sort of important; could have mentioned that earlier."

"Rodney, you reported that Dr Royce found indications of where the beacon testing was taking place," interrupted Weir, looking up from her own tablet. "So I'm assuming that the physics lessons today are part of a pitch for us to check it out and see if we might be able to make it work nonetheless."

"Bingo!" grinned McKay, glad that he had in fact made his point.

"No disrespect meant, Rodney," delicately interjected Teyla. "But beyond the Wraith concerns—which are considerable—our most recent attempt to revive an Ancient experiment resulted in the destruction of the Dorandan homeworld and its star system.(1) Is it wise to again assume that we can succeed here when the Ancestors could or would not?"

"Rodney, let's say you _can_ single-handedly outperform an entire race of advanced beings," queried Beckett diplomatically, as their resident genius opened his mouth to defend said genius. "What if the technology fell into Wraith hands, and put virtually any location on the menu?"

"If we were so concerned about Ancient technology getting into Wraith hands, we'd just destroy the City or dismantle the Gate here. But we haven't chosen that extreme defense. No, going without the technology is not the answer; it's simply a matter of keeping control of it. And that's what Sheppard and his men are here for."

Sheppard nodded a sarcastic _thanks_ at him.

"The possibilities here are literally nearly infinite," insisted McKay. "I mean, imagine the good we could do when the Wraith dial in to block escape from a cull. We open an alternate wormhole to insert teams or a jumper. If the Gate is located in a dangerous or well-guarded location, we can dial our teams a door that sidesteps that danger. Or, should something happen to a stargate entirely, like when then Colonel O'Neill was trapped on a planet when its gate was thought destroyed by a meteor strike;(2) the planet is no longer entirely off the grid. If we can learn from the Ancients' successes and mistakes, every planet, in fact everywhere, could be added to the network."

Stressing his point, McKay laid his tablet on the conference table and leaned toward them all across it. "Look, as with Project Arcturus, the dates on the database entries we're reviewing indicate that this research was happening toward the later parts of the war. Resources were thin, attentions divided and time short; they may not have had enough of any of those things to succeed. We're not in that dire a circumstance—yet—but could stand to gain the same benefits by picking up where they left off."

Faces remained slightly skeptical, despite and perhaps because they better understood the situation.

"If we can't make it work, then nothing but a little time is lost; and at least we won't have skipped a possibility to give us an edge. And if it does work, we'll just have to be as careful with its security as we are with the continued existence of Atlantis, and the Pegasus Gate itself." He looked pleadingly at everyone around the table, finally resting his gaze on the contemplative Expedition leader.

"Given the potential and the very real concerns, Rodney, I assume you have a specific proposal today?" she allowed.

"Royce and I have worked out a gate address where we believe the final phase of SAWgate R&D took place. All I'm asking is for a jumper team to have a look."

"Just reconnaissance?" suggested the likely pilot.

"I'd need time to make sense of anything we find; so I promise no immediate action without checking in with you, Elizabeth."

Weir looked to Sheppard for his thoughts; and he thumb-shrugged his best nothing-to-lose-for-trying. Knowing the meaning as well, McKay looked back at her, as she took a breath, placed her palms on the table and gave permission for "Intelligence gathering only, Rodney. And Dr Royce has accompanied a day team to the mainland today; so I'd like Radek to go with you as well." She eyed both scientists intently, "You are not to attempt anything other than data retrieval. Understood?"

They both nodded agreeably, as they packed up their tablets in anticipation of prepping for the flight.

"Thirty minutes, in the Jumper Bay," Sheppard announced, knowing they'd head directly without a reminder to take some time to get ready.

"Carson," added Weir as the meeting broke up, "Let's go talk with Dr Heightmeyer."

* * *

The Jumper came out of the Spacegate and cloaked immediately, just in case. A quick scan read the system as all clear; but as deep as they were in Wraith-dominated space, Sheppard intended to keep them hidden until they didn't have to be any longer.

Below them, a large, barren and crater-pocked planet wobbled slowly, and beyond it, a wide but sparse asteroid belt circled.

"I'm picking up metallic debris in the asteroid belt, most heavily concentrated a few hundred klicks away," shared McKay pointing in a direction without looking away from his ubiquitous tablet and the Heads Up Display it was wired to. "Just beyond the orbit of the Gate."

Sheppard turned the ship in the direction his navigator had indicated, figuring he would get more detail as the details were available. As they skirted the edge of the planet's ring, the 'asteroids' came into clearer focus; and many of them were clearly not just space rock. "Rodney, is it just me, or does that look a lot like pieces of an Ancient satellite and a hiveship?"

The observation brought the other three members of the team up to see for themselves, both curious and anxious at the apparent find.

"_At least_ one hive, if not several; and based on the mass of just the remnants, I'd say the Ancient station was much larger than the weapons platform beyond Atlantis."(3)

"The near-Gate orbit would make sense for a technology proving ground," suggested Zelenka from his own brightly lit tablet. "Easy Gate access and control as the SAWgate anchor, and easy escape if things went wrong, as they seem to have gone."

"This asteroid field?" McKay waved a hand toward the front window as if he hadn't heard or cared about his colleague's conjecture. "It isn't one. It's the remnants of the Ancient facility, the hiveships, dislodged pieces of the planetoid below us and probably a second, smaller moon that's been completely destroyed."

"The result of a battle?"

"Or did another Ancient technology wipe out another civilisation?"

"The former," stated McKay, ignoring the potential jibe. "The damage patterns on both sets of wreckage—carbon scoring, structural bowing, etc—indicate both external and internal impacts, and that means weapons strikes and explosive decompressions. I'd say the Lantean station and the hiveships took each other out."

"And the popped and swiss-cheesed space rocks?" asked Sheppard.

"I don't think they're related. We don't have any other examples of either Ancients or Wraith having planetkiller weapons; this station was big, but no Death Star."

"Rodney, are you seeing what I'm seeing in the planetary debris?" asked Zelenka.

"Echoes of Alderaan, and millions of minds crying out at once?" gallows-chuckled McKay.

"Less 'force,' and more naquadah, actually."

"What?" piped McKay, diving back into the sensor readings from his own funny. "He's right. There are traces of naquadah all over the planetoid's surface, and scattered throughout the debris ring."

"Were these worlds mining sources for the mineral?" pondered Teyla.

"No," agreed the two scientists at the same time.

"Jinx!" McKay jumped the tie breaker, smiling. "These amounts are probably too small to indicate natural ore deposits. More likely these are remnants of stargate-related technology… like SAWgate beacons. It makes sense that the Ancients would make them from a familiar substance, like naquadah." He scrambled to adjust sensor settings on the jumper console. "I wonder if we're picking up remains of the beacons where they opened wormholes. There might be a beacon intact, or at least some sizable pieces; take us in closer!"

"Are you sure it's safe?" hesitated Sheppard.

"Yes," barked his copilot, as if his instruction hadn't carried enough permission and assurance. "Unless there's a Wraith ship lurking out there, there's nothing left of what we can detect to pose anything other than a collision danger." He turned back to his pad, and continued to think aloud. "So the Ancient station must have controlled the spacegate as the fixed anchor, and directed the other end of the wormhole toward beacons on one of the two planetoids. Like the Meerux and Meerol labs, only in the open and without personnel at your target site, in case something went wrong."

"Looks like something did go wrong," reminded Dex. "One target is gone, and the other is all carved up."

"Well, it's obvious that the craters are the vortex damage from opening wormholes too close to the surface..."

"Or within the planet. Precision of aim would be incredibly difficult."

"And the longer gashes?"

McKay and Zelenka punched their instruments wildly, focusing on those areas and readings as they worked to determine what may have happened there.

Zelenka looked up over his glasses, "Elevated—"

"Plus rotation, yeah," agreed McKay, neither man feeling the need to state more of the obvious.

_I got this one_, nodded Dex to Teyla and Sheppard. "Wanna explain to the rest of us?"

"Huh?" wondered McKay aloud. "Oh, right. Um, almost every Gate we've encountered before has been fixed in place: either to the surface of the planet, the deck of a ship or in a geosynchronous point in space above a planet. The gate and thus the wormhole don't move relative to their immediate surroundings.

"But without an actual gate at the receiving end, the open SAWgate wouldn't necessarily move with its destination. Unless the Ancients developed a way to compensate, we could be looking at absolutely fixed wormholes, opening at or above the planet's surface as the planet rotated underneath them."

"Kind of like landing a helicopter on a moving ship? The chopper has to adjust for the constant movement of the deck…," observed their multi-qualified pilot.

"More like continuously hovering above the moving deck, with a radio-controlled chopper and on an interplanetary scale; but, yes," acknowledged McKay. "And if it wasn't lined up perfectly, for the split seconds it exists, the opening vortex, and even the active event horizon, could literally drag across the surface of the ship. Er, the planet here..."

"And they would wipe out or suck up everything they ran across," followed Dex.

"Power, precision aim over distance, and now dynamic, real-time in situ adjustments… We are nowhere near that level of spatial management!" bemoaned Zelenka.

Everyone stared out at the miscellany of wounds on the planetoid, indicating a large number of imperfect attempts.

"So, did the Ancestors succeed?"

The two scientists turned back to the readings again. McKay narrated, "The other planetoid must have been much smaller, and was eventually carved up completely by bad aim and dragged wormholes."

"Or at least weakened so that gravitational forces…" added his colleague.

"Or the firefight finished the job, yes."

"But some of those gouges are enormous…" interjected Sheppard.

"Maybe they couldn't control the size of the wormhole at the unanchored end; we've only seen wormholes contained within Gates, standard or super-.(4) Too large a vortex would have wiped out or catastrophically damaged the smaller planet."

"So this is a weapon," concluded their Satedan military specialist.

McKay turned to the Satedan with a look of sudden realization, "Everything is a potential weapon to you, isn't it?"

Dreads nodded at him unapologetically, as the pilot turned the Jumper back toward the heaviest concentration of Ancient debris. "So, in addition to all the aim, reach and control problems you've alluded to previously, we now have wormhole size and relative motion to contend with. Geez, Rodney; you're really setting yourself up for a doozey of miracle making this work…," quipped Sheppard.

"One magic trick at a time, please. Let's see if there are any beacons even somewhat intact after the testing, this firefight and likely Wraith scavenging…"

"You think the Wraith may have discovered a beacon?" worried the Athosian.

"Well, even if this fight was a draw, unlike the Ancients, the Wraith have been around and active in the past ten thousand years to come back and look. But, as we haven't had any spontaneous Wraithholes open up, I'm guessing they either didn't find anything or couldn't figure out how to make it work. Regardless, if _we_ can find enough of the technology for us to re-engineer it… Well, that's a lot less miracle I'll have to work on my own."

"But, if the vortex can destroy small planets, wouldn't it have taken out any beacons it was aimed at?" asked Dex, intrigued but still not convinced at the chances of finding this tactical advantage.

"It wouldn't make sense to build them only to be destroyed by the wormhole; single use beacons would be wasteful and foolish."

"On an interplanetary scale," smirked Sheppard.

"Yeah," grimaced McKay, aware that the needle was getting smaller and the haystack, growing. He took a deep breath, and wished aloud, "In the hopes that the Wraith didn't find it all, or didn't recognize its importance, let's take a look at some of the more likely densities of naquadah, and then check the satellite debris for anything beacon-ish."

The entire team looked out the scattered rocks and structural pieces, wondering if not hoping whether the answer to the expanding potential and problems of this technology was out there.

* * *

"Knock, knock."

Weir looked up from her files and laptop. "That was quick."

"Not much to see really," explained Sheppard as he dropped into his regular seat across from her. "And since we didn't leave the Jumper, no post-mission medical either."

"No SAWgate genesis, huh?" she deduced, sitting back in her chair to hear the update.

Sheppard quickly described what they'd seen and surmised on the three hour tour. "On the way back, Radek and Rodney did have the idea that Wraith culling beam technology might provide some kind of insight on the dynamic aiming issues, since they're designed to pick up moving targets. And Zelenka will go back with a team tomorrow to salvage a few pieces that Rodney thinks look most promising for a further look, either for its engineering or its data potential."

"You don't look hopeful."

He shrugged unenergetically. "As handy as this would obviously be, I'm not that sure it's gonna pan out. While we now have evidence that the Ancients were able to open SAWgates, we still don't know exactly how; _and _even if we can, they seemed to be struggling mightily with it." He sighed and picked at the hem of his shirt. "That space garbage looked pretty decrepit; so unless Royce has better luck with those Meerux logs…"

Weir half-smiled, "Well that will have to wait until at least tomorrow evening. He's apparently quite the hit with the Athosians; and they've insisted he spend the night and keep interviewing tomorrow."

"Chocolate," deduced Sheppard matter-of-factly.

"Pardon?"

"He took them chocolate," smiled the Colonel. "Don't get me a wrong; Royce is a nice guy, great with people. But he's also wicked smart about it." Weir still looked a little confused, so he explained. "I understand that he used most of his inbound personal cargo allowance on the _Daedalus_ to bring boxes of chocolate, an assortment of hot-off-the-presses international sport and celebrity magazines, and various knit socks—classically popular and scarce items on frontline military postings." The career soldier chuckled at memories of his own past haggling for such prized goodies from home. "He's a great conversationalist, but has also used his familiarity with the military barter market to… shall we say, _sweeten_ his introductions. Teyla suggested the candy bars would be of greatest interest in the village."

Weir smiled at the unsubtle, if very successful diplomacy of the new staff member. "Speaking of Teyla, I thought it might be nice to ask if she wanted to accompany the jumper over tomorrow morning, if you don't have anything more pressing here…"

"No; that sounds great. I know she'd appreciate it; and I've got plenty of paperwork backing up with Lorne still out. Any news there?"

Weir shook her head. "But I was planning on checking in on him, Carson and 'Michael' on the way to dinner. Care to join me?"

"Sure," he brightened. "All that talk of chocolate…"

"I could use some nice new socks," mused Weir as they waved to the control room staff on their way down to the Dining Hall, via the Infirmary.

* * *

NOTES

1. In _Trinity _(SGA 2.06), McKay's insistence that he could make the Project Arcturus weapons system successful ultimately led it to overload, taking two-thirds of the solar system with it.

2. _A Hundred Days_ (SG1 3.17).

3. The team discovered an Ancient weapons satellite 15 hours' Jumper ride from Atlantis in _The Defiant One_ (SGA 1.12), and later used it against the approaching Wraith fleet in _The Siege, Part 1_ (SGA 1.19).

4. The Milky Way Galaxy Ori Supergate was first seen in _Beachhead_ (SG1 9.06), several months before this story's post-_Coup d'Etat_ (SGA 2.17) setting.


	8. Day Seventeen

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY SEVENTEEN

_Late May 1995_

_The mostly empty Chinese takeout boxes were stacked neatly on the makeshift table in front of them; and the six pack sat two-thirds empty, as they once again found themselves staring up into a San Francisco night sky._

"_Actually, I've never asked how they got the couch up here. Probably best I don't know…," mused Max. He looked over to where Evan sat on that ramshackle sofa, an unopened beer in hand and his mind very clearly somewhere else. "Evan, how long have I been talking to myself?"_

_Evan's gaze didn't change from a point somewhere between the edge of the roof and eternity._

_Max took another sip from his own bottle, sighed and confided too seriously, "Evan, I'm pregnant and I think Prince Edward is the father. Do you think I should keep it?"_

"_Mm-hmm," was the response, without any additional reaction._

"_Tower to flyboy? Come in, Spansky!" laughed Max, bouncing on the sofa to emphasize the summons._

_Evan turned to look at him briefly, smiling blandly, and sat more upright if no more comfortably on the dead-spring cushions._

_Max slouched down, not fully successful at rousing his friend. "Are you alright? I took my year-end exams weeks early to jet over for your graduation, and you head off tomorrow for pilot training at Randolph.(__1)__ Tonight's our last night out together; and you've been off on some other planet all evening. As a matter of fact, you've been acting all weird since we were back in the Headlands this weekend. What's up? Did I do something wrong?"_

"_No! No," Evan insisted too quickly, before he returned to staring down at the bottle in his hand._

"_Then what?" prodded Max, literally poking his shoulder. When Evan didn't react or respond, Max physically turned toward him on the battered sofa, emphasizing the irritated concern he let into his voice. "Please don't pull this stoic macho pre-departure withdrawal crap… No? OK, did you run into Stacey what's-her-face from high school? Are you having second thoughts about the whole fighter pilot thing? The military? 'Cause you've seemed pretty happy for four years, and they own your ass now…" _

_The newly commissioned Second Lieutenant shook his head at each supposition._

"_Then tell me what's wrong!" He saw the muscles in Evan's jaw flex, clear sign of some significant internal struggle to gather thoughts, find the right words or summon up the courage to speak them. "I'd hoped by now, you know you can talk to me about anything," Max reminded, to the same troubled silence. For something this apparently big, this obviously difficult, he decided to give his friend plenty of time and space, and so he relaxed his own posture to remove any pressure he might be adding, and waited. _

"_Nothing's wrong, Max," Evan finally shared. He inhaled, opened his mouth and almost turned his head several times, before the dam finally broke. "That's just it, you see—in some ways, I've never been better." _

_He turned to look at his skeptical friend, sweat on his brow despite the summer night chill. "Do you remember the weekend we met? When we were sitting up on the bluff above Kirby Cove, and you asked me why I was going Air Force?"_

_Max nodded at the four-year old memory of their introduction. "You lit up at talking about being up there," he titled his head skyward. "Adventure and service, altitude and speed…"_

"_Well, I've almost got it all—my orders will get me airborne soon enough; the Academy proved to me that I can have my wings, lapel and literal. But it's only this week since graduation, our being back at Kirby again, that I realized what achieving that dream is going to cost me: you."_

"_I'm not going…"_

"_That's not what I mean, Prime; lemme finish." Seeking comfort in the familiar starscape, Evan gazed back up over The City lights, and thought back nearly four year before. "There was a moment near the end of Basic Cadet Training that first summer, when I was looking up at the stars from Jacks Valley(__2)__ at the end of another long day. It was hard, and exhausting, and not really fun; but it just felt right, you know? That was the moment when I knew I'd made the right choice for school and career. I'd found my place, was sure of my path in the world._

"_And as we marched back to the Cadet Area, the main part of campus, in the midst of that rush of purpose and confidence and fatigue, I realized that there was actually something missing. That what I wanted more than anything in the world, at that moment of weary euphoria, was to tell you about it." He looked over to Max, hoping his expression could translate how profoundly important that connection was to him then, and even now._

_Seeing a polite but nonchalant blush from his best friend, he explained further, as they both again watched the cityscape. "So many people have not understood why this mild-mannered painter wanted to be a fighter pilot; have doubted that the messy, creative mama's boy could grow up into a soldier. My high school friends got the speed and warrior bit; the other zoomies obviously shared the love of flight or structure or service; and my family's appreciated my art and tolerated me following my passions, even if they didn't understand or like it. But everybody's only gleaned their part. Everybody but you. From that first night at Kirby, you've never batted an eye at what I wanted to be, who I was." He shook his head, smiling, still surprised at the instant understanding this random acquaintance had offered._

"_And at every important moment for me since, whether a celebration or a hardship, you're the person I've thought to call or write first, or to wish was there with me through it. The nights in the Springs that I was so tired or frustrated, and just wanted to throw in the towel, I'd get a call or a funny postcard from you. When dad died, you were there for me when I was trying to be strong for mom and Nats. And when Anne and I were coming to an end after second class year, I kept wishing she understood me and that I communicated with her as easily as I do with you. From that first campfire to being back by the Bay tonight, you've been there with me and for me at every step and turn."_

_Max blushed brighter and squirmed a little uncomfortably at the unexpected outpouring of appreciation, especially since all the accoladed efforts had been given so freely. And, he had certainly relied on Evan through his own share of trials and triumphs. But before he could make the reciprocal reminders, that friend cut him short._

"_I love you, Max."_

_Max smiled and assured, "You're my best friend; I love you t-"_

"_No, Max; not in the drinking buddy, got-your-back, friendship bracelet way..." Evan's demeanor and delivery showed no sign of tipsy or distraction; he was entirely earnest. "I mean in the wear-my-letterman-jacket, matching towels, march the Castro way." As much anxiety as he felt on speaking the feelings, there was also a simultaneous relief for having gotten them out. As scary as it absolutely was, it also felt great to have finally voiced the affection aloud. He couldn't help but smile at the release and the world's not ending… But his own expressions were only half the equation here; and so he watched his friend's face for some reaction beyond the stunned disbelief that seemed to dominate._

_For several moments, Max just stared at him, mouth agape and eyes blinking in proportion to his shock, before forcing out an oxygen-starved, "Why…?"_

"_I know," Evan was quick to reassure. This was likely quite a shock to Max on a number of levels; and for each of those reasons and questions, he deserved an explanation. "Why am I saying anything when I ship out into the wild blue yonder in the morning, and you head back to Oxford for who knows how many more years of school? But that's just it: We've seen each other regularly on school breaks the past four years, and kept in touch by phone and mail easy enough. But that all changes tomorrow morning. You'll have set schedules and all sorts of freedoms and social opportunities. But I'll be a full time soldier, off on long-term assignments, without guaranteed holidays, and with lots of restrictions on my movement and communication. After tonight, I don't know when or how often we'll see or get to talk with each other. So I know this timing isn't great; but before we go our separate ways, I needed you to know."_

_Still incredulous, Max stood and chugged the last half of his beer as he walked to the roof railing._

_Evan called after him, trying to salvage the potentially dismissive reaction, to reassure them both that he hadn't made a mistake in making the confession, "I'm not drunk. I'm not high, or joking. I haven't been replaced by a pod person. And I'm not saying I don't still like girls too." That was true, and it did feel a little better to have named that fact, for what security it gave either of them. "You know me well enough to know this isn't some ill-considered impulse; the career consequences for feeling this, much less saying it, are all bad. I haven't gotten here easily or lightly, Max; quite the opposite."_

_Setting down his own full bottle, he walked toward Max, desperate to make his friend understand, to make sure he hadn't made a mistake in being honest. "I don't even really know what I'm asking, if anything. I don't have a plan or idea of what I expect from here, except that I don't want to ruin our friendship. Hell," he laughed nervously in sudden realization, "I don't even know if you feel anything at all for me beyond friendship."_

_He stepped up beside the obviously, but ambiguously emotional half-Briton, entirely unsure of how this news was settling on him. "It's just that, you're my best friend, or at least have been up until this minute; and we've always been honest with one another, painfully so. I just couldn't go without saying something, without letting you know how much you've meant to me. How much you do mean."_

_Max just kept staring at the empty bottle at whose label he was nervously picking. _

_Evan continued his uncharacteristic gush, unsure of whether he was making himself understood, and adamant to do so. "I'm about to take the next big step toward what I've wanted to do my entire life; and as it's gotten closer, something's just been not quite right, missing even. This week, hanging out with you again, being with you so much, so happily, I finally realized what it was –or I guess I really just admitted it to myself. I love you, more than I'd ever understood. And whatever else the future holds, I needed you to know; and now you do."_

_Max's knuckles were white where they now gripped the wall, his face a mix of pale and flush._

_Frantic now at whether his disclosure had backfired, Evan begged, "Well, come on, Max. It may not have been graduate school eloquent, but I just poured my heart out here; I handed you The Big One… I know this is a shock; imagine how freaked out I am. But it's true, or I wouldn't be saying it." His eyes, voice and now hands pleaded with the silent man for some acknowledgement, any clear reaction. "You're the language guru; say something!"_

_Without looking over at him, Max reached out, placed a cool hand on Evan's fretting fist and reminded him to "Breathe."_

_Modeling the calming in and out breaths, Max sensed Evan calm slightly; but he knew his affectionate friend was looking for more than stress management tips._

_Turning toward the confessor without looking at him, he took Evan's other hand and pulled it toward him. Without making eye contact, he opened and placed Evan's palm firmly against his chest, where his heart was racing wildly._

_Evan looked up from the hand-to-heart connection, needing some confirmation of the intended message._

_Max smiled and explained, "If you'd let me finish my question, I was going to ask why it took you so long to say something..."_

_

* * *

_

Hours later, Max shivered and pulled the blanket closer. Instantly awash in the scent of Evan, he opened his eyes smiling to see that he was also draped in the owner's flannel shirt. But he was alone on the threadbare sofa.

_He rolled, and found only one pile of clothes lying beside the sofa—his own, minus his sweater. There, perched atop the disheveled pile, was a Chinatown delivery menu neatly folded into an airplane. And on one wing, scribbled in charcoal from the nearby grill, a simple commitment: My Prime._

_Grinning broadly, Max snuggled back into the couch and peered up into the early morning sky, the realm of his flyboy. Not really knowing what the next steps in their more-than-friendship would be, he nonetheless burst out laughing. Merde, he smiled, I've been _Top Gun_-ed!_

* * *

"Max? Max?"

Royce snapped to contemporary consciousness, knowing his name had been called but not by whom or why. In those split second eternities that occur only within our own minds, he realized he was still in the Atlantis Infirmary, that Evan was still unconscious, that he had fallen asleep with one hand in Evan's hair and the other intertwined with said patient's, that someone else was present and speaking to him, and that this person could obviously see everything.

"Dr Royce!" the soft voice repeated again, urgently.

_Someone could see!_ He released the sleeping patient, and bolted upright and away so quickly that he stumbled backward over the stool he'd pulled to the bedside. He ended up crashing to the ground in a position that was only going to exacerbate the backache he would already have from long hours hunched on the now overturned seat. Unconcerned with his own condition, he cursed himself, _Selfish! Stupid! Careless! _

"Max!" repeated the voice again, now alarmed at, if misunderstanding, his contorted grimace. Above him, a woman wearing medical colors reached down to offer a hand. "Are you alright?" She helped extract him from the stool and get to his feet, as other heads and eyes in the suite turned back from what was clearly not a medical crisis.

He looked at her through a sleepy, alarmed and embarrassed haze, putting his glasses back on, "Jennifer? Sorry…"

She smiled, nodded and led him back toward the right-sided chair near Lorne. "You've cut your forehead; sit still while I take a look..." She fetched one of the basic medtrays always handy in the always busy infirmary, put on a pair of gloves, and focused on the small scratch above his eye.

He faced forward, keeping his guilty eyes on Lorne.

She made conversation as she worked, "Well, I see that you're still in your duty uniform, so I'm guessing you've been here since you finished your shift."

"I just wanted to come by for a little while, to see how he was before I grabbed a late dinner. I should go eat and get some proper sleep before tomorrow."

"Well, it actually is tomorrow. A-shift comes on any moment."

"What?" he looked up at her in renewed alarm, causing her to smear the alcohol swab across his face. _Double frak!_

"Sit still," she commanded, turning his head back and wiping his face, again. "Don't worry, you weren't bothering anyone; so I pulled the curtain and let you sleep. And, I've sent word to your work cluster that you had some important business here, and would likely be late."

"Thank you," he stated automatically, though not insincerely. "Why?" he asked abruptly, more curious than suspicious at her kindness.

"Well, duh! You're a good friend to spend so much time in here, sitting with the Major. So, I'd say that must be pretty important to you; and it's certainly not doing him any harm."

He sighed wearily, and explained simply and honestly, "I guess I'm still hoping I might be here if- _when_ he wakes. Or might encourage him to."

"I know; I'm not critiquing," she noted, spreading some liquid bandage on the cleaned cut. "I've told you, we like it when you bring in your guitar and play for him. It's not often you hear someone who can sing _The Goonies'_ theme song well, and softly, and unaccompanied except for an acoustic guitar," she laughed.(3)

"It's one of his favorite movies," smiled Royce. That's why he'd worked so hard to learn it years before. _Why I am telling her this? _he screamed at himself. _Change the subject!_

As if mindreading his effort and motivation, she unknowingly cut him off in the same calm tone, "Does he know how much you care about him?"

Royce pulled away involuntarily, before catching himself and looking all the more terrified for his reaction to the question. From her own reaction, it was clear that the basis for her question had been confirmed. He clamped his eyes shut and clenched his fists so tightly they hurt.

She squatted down beside him, and spoke warmly and softly, placing one hand on his. "Max, over the past month, I hope we've started becoming friends. So, I say this from a genuine, personal care and concern for you: None of the medical staff here is military, and many aren't American; so it's officially none of our beeswax, in addition to the fact that we don't care. And I'm happy to see Evan has someone so committed to him, beyond professional obligation. I'm honestly a little jealous," she laughed semi-nervously. She glanced in the direction of the nurses' station, warning, "You just need to be careful, for his sake; and I'd also suggest taking a little better care of yourself, for his sake too. 'Nuff said, OK?"

Standing and returning to more overt business without allowing time for response, she announced brightly, "Alright, Doctor Royce, no head-butting anyone for a while, and watch out for pesky, underfoot furniture on your way to breakfast."

A little stunned at her insight and apparent confidence, but entirely obedient nonetheless, he stood and glanced from her to Lorne and back again. Nodding a silent appreciation to her and vowing to be more careful in his concern, he whispered a more-emotional-than-usual "verily" toward the bed, and turned to beeline back to his quarters for a quick shower and change, before grabbing some fruit on the way to the lab.

More immediately, he ran into a ragged looking Dr Beckett who was just poking his head through the screen himself. "Well my goodness, Dr Royce; what a surprise! You look like you've been here for days. Oh wait, you likely have."

Across the alcove, Keller made a 'calm down' gesture and nodded, assuring him that Beckett had not been there to hear their conversation.

Missing the meta-exchange too, and cracking a bit of a smile, Beckett panned, "You know, son, I have half a mind to charge you a daily rate since you're here by choice." He moved on to check Lorne's monitors. "How is our most popular patient this morning?"

"No significant change," reported Keller, with a smile not meant about the Major. "Max was just swinging by for his morning check as well."

"M-hmm," doubted Beckett, looking up from the charts, to his colleague, to the visitor. "From my staff's stories, to my own observations at odd hours of late, I know you're here enough that I probably ought to pay you a salary. But, no offense, and from someone who's feeling it himself: you look a mess."

Beckett brought the medical tablet over to where Royce stood unsure whether or how to respond. "In fact, I'm putting a note in the shift log, that I am ordering you to take a meal off from bedside vigil." Tapping feverishly on the screen, he narrated, "Whether or not you take the morning to sleep and clean up, you are not to come here for lunch today. Instead, you will take a proper meal with some different faces while getting some air and sun in the Dining Hall." He glanced up at Royce with a genuine, but firm smile. "I don't want to see or hear that you were here until this evening at the earliest, understood?"

Royce looked over at Keller for support, but her expression made it clear that she agreed with her division head, and likely as a friend just as much. Two against one, and knowing they were right, he dropped his head in accession.

"Good man," beamed Beckett, slapping him on the shoulder. "You know we'll call if there's anything to know in the meanwhile. Now go on, get outta here."

"Thanks," he begrudged them both, before turning and shuffling wearily out toward that shower and a change of clothes, before heading to the lab and eventually this 'lunch' directive.

"Besides, if he comes in here with that guitar, there's no chance I'll keep my eyes open today," muttered Beckett to no one in particular. Turning to replace the tablet, he came face-to-face with his colleague, who eyed him with the same concerned sternness he had just used.

"Speaking of which, Carson," she chided, arms folded across her chest. "I hope you'll take your own advice, _after_ you tell me what's been keeping you so preoccupied in the isolation lab at all hours…"

* * *

Several hours later, Royce shuffled across the dining hall, balancing his tray and two cups of steaming tea, paying as little attention to whom else might be in the room as he had to the menu selections this lunchtime. Oblivious to the friendly smiles and waves as he passed tables, he carefully set his handfuls and himself at the first open seat in his path. He cradled one mug in both hands and took a long drink, letting the temperature and caffeine rouse his weary senses.

"Hello."

Royce looked up in the direction of the unexpected greeting, and discovered he'd sat down with a puzzled, but friendly, and entirely unfamiliar man.

The man was staring at him, not unpleasantly, and began chewing again.

Royce jumped to his feet, aware that a very stern and heavily armed Marine just beyond the table flinched in clear reaction to his sudden move. For his part, the seated man seemed unsure what had happened or what to do, and half-stood with his hands raised, but whether to soothe or surrender, Royce wasn't sure.

"I am so sorry," stammered Royce, "I wasn't paying any attention, and just plopped down at your table…"

"That's alright; I don't mind," smiled the man. He gestured around to the other tables in the dining hall, most of which were largely full, except for the one they now shared. "As you can see, no one else has cared to join me."

"Still, that's no excuse for just making myself at home…," Royce demurred.

A moment of confusion passed over the man's face, before his pleasant look returned. "I don't think you'd want to live here; but you can certainly sit here with me. If you like?" The man sat down and nodded toward the seat that Royce had claimed.

"That's very kind of you," Royce accepted as he sat down.

The man looked at Royce's tray, and then up at Royce. "Were you going to eat something?"

Royce looked down to see that he had in fact taken a tray, but had not put any food on it despite going through the serving line.

He laughed aloud at himself; and the man joined in. "I'm sorry. Again. I guess I'm more than a little pre-occupied."

"Are you OK? You keep turning red…"

Royce took a deep breath, and asked, "Perhaps we can start over…" He smiled at the stranger, stuck out his hand and said, "Hello, I'm Max Royce. I'm relatively new to Atlantis, and am apparently having one helluva day."

The man stared at the outstretched hand, as if he'd never seen one before.

Royce smiled and explained away the hesitation, "It's clean, I promise. I'm a linguist, so no worries about alien bugs or odd chemicals like some of the hard science guys." He twisted the hand to exhibit its hazard-free status, and grabbed the man's own tentatively proffered hand.

Watching Royce put his hand down, the man did the same, before taking up his part in the social script, "I'm kind of new myself. I'm Michael Kenmore; nice to meet you."

* * *

NOTES

1. Randolph Air Force Base, outside San Antonio Texas; home to US Air Force pilot training intake.

2. Outdoor training area at the US Air Force Academy, where incoming cadets spend the second half of their summer Basic Training in an extended field camp.

3 PLAYLIST: Cyndi Lauper, _The Goonies 'R' Good Enough_ (Single Version), released 1984.


	9. Day Seventeen cont

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY SEVENTEEN (cont.)**

"Your outfit says military, and your accent suggests… United States?" somewhat guessed Atlantis' resident linguist. He leaned forward and offered the next insight as if it were a secret. "I'm not sure what the bodyguard indicates," gesturing toward the observant but disinterested Marine.

Matching Royce's stage whisper, Kenmore shared, "I'm a Lieutenant under Colonel Sheppard's command, am told I'm from Texas, and the guards aren't for me, they're for everyone else."

Royce sat up and took in the whole scene, before confessing with a slight, uneasy grin, "I'm just a civilian, so I'm not sure whether that's supposed to reassure or rattle me."

Kenmore sighed and put his fork down a little more heavily than intended. "Sorry. I thought everyone knew; guess I'd better get used to explaining…"

Fearing that he had, again, overstepped the bounds of decorum, Royce interjected, "Lieutenant, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry and you certainly don't owe me any explanation."

**"**No, it's OK. I just assumed everyone else knew. It's actually a little reassuring to meet someone who doesn't; I'm not alone in the not knowing!" His smile was genuine, if a little nervous, even as Royce continued to look at him more than a little puzzled. "Uh, let's see, basically: Not long after coming to Atlantis, I was captured by the Wraith, and then recently rescued. We don't know what they did to me, if anything; but Dr Weir and Colonel Sheppard aren't taking any chances on me freaking out and hurting someone."

Royce stared incredulously at him, still not sure whether to be sorry or scared. Knowing that neither reaction would be useful to the man across the table from him, he chose to commiserate, "Wow; I'm sorry. I'm not really sure what to say. My one run in with the Wraith was quick and unpleasant enough; so I can only imagine what being captured must have been like for you."

"Yeah, and I can only imagine too, because I can't remember anything—not of them, not of my life before, not anything. My memory starts last night when I woke up in the Infirmary."

"You don't remember anything? Nothing at all?"

"Well, I can speak, and read, and get around obviously. Some faces and words are familiar, like 'Wraith' and 'Atlantis'; but they had to tell me my name and that I'm from Texas." His eyebrows shot up in epiphany, "How'd you know I was from the US if we haven't met before?"

"I'm a linguist—I study languages; so I recognized your accent family. You talk like many English-speakers from North America, sort of. Though your vowels aren't quite right for Texas…"

Kenmore clearly wasn't convinced whether the observation was encouraging or more troubling; but his concern rebounded toward curiosity quickly, as a genuine smile broke across his face again, "So, where are you from? Who talks like you?"

Warmed by the interest, but not really having another answer, Royce gave a practiced but honest response, adapted from his diplomatic cocktail party repertoire. "I've lived all over the world—Earth that is; so I've typically talked however the locals did. Most recently, I've spent a number of years in California; so, I guess my accent is largely North American, with some undertones of a few other places including my British mom's Received English."

Kenmore listened intently, trying to take some meaning from the locations mentioned; but it was clear that no bells rang. Quickly growing accustomed to dead ends, he switched topics again, "So, I get why the military is here, what with the Wraith and all. But what does a linguist do in Atlantis if everyone at least speaks English?"

Grinning openly at the too rare blatant intrigue of this truthful, if troubled, person, Royce finished his sip of tea and gladly shared. "Well, I'm assigned to work as an interpreter as needed—between the Expedition and off-world contacts, to support the translation of artifacts, and to work with the engineers on developing some portable translation software." He laughed at the insight Kenmore's question showed, "You're apparently not the only military officer who wonders why I'm here. My science division colleagues have told me that the science and military types don't mix a whole lot, except at the highest levels of leadership." He gestured between them, observing, "I guess our talking is pretty rare."

Kenmore's face dropped again, "But it's allowed, right?"

"Of course," smiled Royce, on some level relieved not to be the only party concerned about faux pas. "I don't think I could stand hanging out with only the science corps all the time. They're nice enough people, but can be a little narrow in their interests. The entomol- the insect scientist who was on the spaceflight from home, all he was able to talk about was the iratus bug, dragonflies and such. Interesting for a while, but not weeks at a time…"

"I'm afraid I'm probably not good company either, as I don't have much to talk about beyond questions about myself."

Royce leaned in slightly, to emphasize the delicacy of the insight he was about to offer, "Lieutenant…"

"'Michael,' please."

"Michael. I've met a couple of folks here who like to talk about nothing but their wants and needs." He nodded his head in the direction of Atlantis' Chief Science Officer, who sat a few tables away picking irritably at his red dessert gelatin. "But I get the sense that your focus is more self-reflective than self-aggrandizing. And as a new guy myself, I'm happy to have another friend outside my workgroup. I don't know what I can do, but I'd be happy to help you as much as I can; we're starting from scratch between us as it is…"

Kenmore absolutely beamed at the non-judgment. "I'd like that. Thanks. Among the things I could use right now, friends are right up there."

At that moment, Royce's wristwatch beeped urgently. He silenced it and sighed, realizing he'd talked through his midday break. "And, at the risk of starting this friendship off on the wrong foot, I'm afraid I've got to go. I have a meeting to start developing grammar indices for an AI translation matrix."

Kenmore stared are him blankly.

"Sorry, technobabble for work; it's not the fun parts, I promise." He stood to leave, remembering to "Thank you for letting me interrupt and sort of join you for lunch. A good friend is very ill right now; and it's been a rough week at the office. You have no idea how reenergizing it's been to meet somebody not involved in it all."

Kenmore jumped up as well, again causing the Marine guard to twitch slightly. "I'm sorry about your friend. So thank you all the more for talking with me. It's nice to have another friendly face, when everything is so unfamiliar. Maybe we can see each other again?"

Royce paused and smiled neutrally, not sure whether to read something more than friendship into the invitation. Choosing to take it at face value, he responded sincerely, "My pleasure, Michael Kenmore from Texas. We may not have all the info yet, but I can tell already you're a good guy."

The amnesiac airman looked both embarrassed and appreciative, and a little confused as to what might make him say so.

Royce reached over and took a small item off Kenmore's tray, "With a blank culinary slate, you chose tater tots with your lunch." Popping the day's apparent lunch into his mouth, he explained, "No one who chooses tots can be all bad."

He smiled and headed off, pausing near the door and turning back to see Kenmore still standing and grinning after him. Before turning into the hallway, he just caught a glimpse of the officer popping a tot into his own mouth as he sat down.

Behind Kenmore, a voice a few tables over cut through the background noise, "Ah! Hey, what happened to the, uh, blue Jell-O? ..."(1)

* * *

_Grab dinner and then get to the Infirmary_, that's all he wanted to do. He had obeyed Dr Beckett's orders not to visit, or even call, since the morning; and while he knew they would contact him if anything had changed, he felt the need to be there almost as strong as his hunger. Word was that tonight's menu was spaghetti; and he fully intended to take a tray of steaming marinara and garlic bread to add a culinary stimulus to Evan's environment. Never mind that he hadn't actually eaten lunch himself.

As he bee-lined for the cafeteria, the shout came from down the hallway, "Max!"

He turned to see a smiling Michael Kenmore hurrying toward him, with two different, but equally menacing Marines following watchfully.

"Hello, Lieutenant."

"They wouldn't let me go to your lab, or tell me where your quarters were; so I hoped I might catch you coming for dinner." He gestured toward a bench where he'd apparently been waiting in the hopes Max would pass by.

Primed for bad news of late, Max's faced wrinkled with worry, "Is everything OK?"

Michael's glee evaporated, realizing and reflecting the concern he had caused. "Yes. Well, same as it has been." He smiled again, hoping to redirect the mood.

Max looked at him inquisitively, still not sure whether that was, in fact, good or bad, given the security precautions the base leadership were obviously taking with him.

Dropping his volume, but still upbeat in tone, Michael explained, "I had a session with Dr Heightmeyer this afternoon, to help me cope with… with this whole experience. And among the things she told me was to concentrate on the positive; and our lunch was one of the most positive parts of what little I can remember..."

Royce blushed at the honesty itself, and blanched at the thought that the military escorts had perhaps heard it. Not sure how to respond before the two audiences, he glanced about humbly and nervously. "Um, well, I'm glad…"

"I was hoping, maybe, that we could eat together again." Michael gestured toward the dining hall, with puppy-like hope in his face. "I'll make sure you actually get something on your tray this time…"

Max grimaced, knowing his answer would not settle well. "Actually, Michael, I was planning to grab a tray, with food, and head to the Infirmary to see my friend there. He loves pasta; so I'm hoping the smell of tonight's 'zesty tomato sauce and garlic butter' will help him get up and about sooner."

"Oh," acknowledged Michael, initially disappointed by the denied company. His face lit slightly, asking, "Well can I come with you? I could help carry something…"

An angry cloud passed over Max's face, before he realized that Michael wasn't insensitive to the circumstance, he just didn't understand the inappropriateness of the intrusion. Smiling politely, he explained, "It's really not a social occasion, Michael. And, I hoped to just spend some time with Lorne. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Right," Michael nodded dejectedly, disappointed and sensing on some level that he'd overstepped another social rule he didn't remember. "I understand," he tried to lie.

"Michael, it's not that I don't want to have dinner with you. I enjoyed lunch. Really. I just can't tonight… How about we go through the line together?"

"It's OK; really," Michael continued, beginning to literally backpedal down the hallway. He thumbed at the two guards, "I've always got company." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he led his escorts the long way around to the dining hall, leading the entourage toward another table for one.

"I'm sorry!" Max shouted after him, before a growling stomach reminded him of his two pending appointments.

* * *

Later that night, Kenmore sat at the desk in his spartan quarters, staring at the laptop screen on which only a few words sat. He rubbed his tired eyes, and leaned back in the chair, wishing words, memories, anything would come to him.

From the direction of the door, a voice narrated the accompanying sound, "Knock, knock?" Royce stood in the slightly opened door, looking oddly at the unsecured glass entry.

"Max!" beamed the odd room's resident, hopping up and hurrying toward the unexpected guest.

The linguist remained in the doorway, not wanting to intrude further without invitation. And when the Lieutenant just stood there silently, Royce realized he'd probably need to take the lead on this social script. "May I come in?"

"Yes, please," waved Michael, stepping aside.

"Thanks. I would have rung or knocked, but you don't seem to have a doorbell of any kind."

"Yeah, no way to lock it from in here either. I guess we're a trusting place," observed Michael with no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Max looked around, still showing a little surprise at the strange set-up of the room—glass interior walls, only a few personal items scattered about. He was no decorator himself, but knew that most arrivals to Atlantis moved somewhat quickly to de-alien the comfortable enough spaces. Surely having touches of home and history would also be helpful to Michael as he tried to recover memories of them; but the room looked like the officer had only unpacked an overnight bag. All he said, though, was "I've not been to any of the interior quarters before; a lot more glass than those on the exterior walls. A lot like my lab, actually…"

"What is your room like?"

Max turned to face Michael with a genuine warmth, "That's a good segway, actually. I'm sorry again about being short with you earlier tonight; I hope you enjoyed your pasta… The Dining Hall meals are nutritious enough, I guess, but I wondered whether you might like to come to my quarters tomorrow night for a home-cooked meal?"

Michael lit up at the invitation, even before Max could give his reasoning.

"More than a month out from home, and I'm feeling the need to hotplate a little comfort food. And I imagine that evenings may be an especially tough time for you; when most everyone else is off doing their own thing, you're just here. So, I'm asking to make up for tonight but with no pressure; just an option for another change of scenery."

"I'd like that very much," nodded the guest-to-be.

"Great. Anything you do or don't like?

Michael's face flashed with a resigned confusion, "I don't know what I like or don't, except tater tots; I very much like those," he admitted, his smile returning. "Dr Beckett tells me I have Type I diabetes, if that makes any difference." Again, not the least hint of self-consciousness around the rather personal, if relevant disclosure.

"That shouldn't be a problem," Max reassured as he quickly thought through the likely menu for starch and sugars. Pleased, but not sure how to continue, Max gestured to the open laptop, "I'm sorry, I'm interrupting…"

Michael walked over and traced an absentminded finger over the largely blank screen. "No, not really. Dr. Heightmeyer suggested that journaling might help me cope with my feelings about the situation. But, all it's done so far is call attention to how little I know and how frustrating that is. The few lines you see describing today are all I've been able to come up with…"

"I can only imagine how difficult that must be," Max returned. "But I keep a journal myself, and find it useful in sorting through my current thoughts, never mind the past."

Michael snapped himself back to the positive of the friendship at hand, "Well I'm just hoping it will come back to me, and soon. In the meanwhile, it's nice to have people concerned and trying to help. How is your friend, by the way?"

It was Max's turn to shift to somber. He bit his lip and looked down before putting on his own happy front. "Physically he's continuing to heal, but there's still no sign of his waking up. They say it's really up to him now; he could snap to tonight, or… Or never," he nodded matter-of-factly.

Inhaling deeply, he shifted gears obviously, "Well, it seems you've had a full day already. Maybe some sleep will help loosen the mind a little… Get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow; let's say nineteen hundred? Seven o'clock…"

"I'm looking forward to it."

Determined to show progress and support, Michael put out his hand and shook Max's vigorously.

Max chuckled at the genuineness of the effort, and returned to his quarters a little cheered by the Lieutenant's apparent positivity despite his own situation. He hoped his cooking wouldn't detract from that rapport or progress…

* * *

**DAY EIGHTEEN**

"Why do we not simply tell him the truth?" asked Teyla to the assembled leadership the next morning, as Michael Kenmore paced in his room on the monitors around them. "I am finding it difficult keeping it from him; and I am beginning to question whether our course of action is the correct one."(2)

"I'm sorry he's not sleeping well," quickly dismissed Sheppard. "But as you told him, a bad dream is nothing unusual for anyone here. You could say that a healthy subconscious fear of Wraith is actually progress; certainly no reason to abandon the project," he concluded looking from Teyla to Weir.

The latter inquired about another variable in the equation, "And what about his friendship with Dr Royce? How does that factor in?"

"Michael told me that Dr Royce is making dinner for him tonight; he seemed very excited," shared the Athosian.

Dr Heightmeyer suggested that "It may be useful to see how he interacts with someone who doesn't know his story, how he handles a genuine, from-scratch relationship."

Ever mindful of the security situation, whether for the City overall or individual team members, Sheppard worried, "But Royce doesn't know enough to be careful. If Kenmore flips out…"

"Nothing Michael has done since waking suggests that he poses a threat to anyone," restated the Athosian leader.

"Then why do we still have two armed Marines assigned to him around the clock?" posed McKay. "Not that I'm complaining about them. The guards. Armed guards."

"I'm pretty sure Royce can handle himself," assured the taller Pegasus galaxy native. "But I don't like Michael being here, anywhere, with anyone."

McKay rolled his eyes indignantly, and stage-whispered to no one, "I've been here two years, and get belittled regularly. But he's been here all of two weeks, vomits at the slightest energy surge, and everyone thinks he's a 'big boy'?"

Weir ignored the tangent, "I'm actually more concerned that Royce will become too helpful, trying to help him uncover his recent or deeper past—and not find anything. What happens if he asks around to other personnel, and no one's heard of a Lt Kenmore before?"

"I think Dr Royce has plenty to keep him occupied as a one man department, and with his best friend still in a coma." Sheppard looked to Beckett for confirmation.

"Aye, if anything, Michael has given Dr Royce someone to engage with beyond Rodney, my staff and Major Lorne. The new friendship seems to be doing them both some good…"

"Even if their friendship is genuine and without incident, is it right to deceive him with this experiment?" posed the still uncomfortable Teyla. "And what of Dr Royce's reaction when he learns that Michael was a wraith—a wraith involved in injuring Major Lorne?"

That eventuality and ethical question hung in the room without a quick remedy.

"I haven't met with Dr Royce yet," finally interjected Heightmeyer. "Given his experiences since arriving, I think it would be appropriate for me to initiate a welfare check on him. Without breaking his confidence, I could garner how he sees their friendship developing, and try to assess how well he can handle the friendship and the eventual truth on top of everything else."

"That sounds like a good idea. And, Rodney, as you're working together on the SAWgate logs, perhaps you could get a sense of his interactions with Michael too?" Weir half-asked.

"What, now I'm a social worker slash private investigator? Would you like me to get the windows while I'm at it?"

"No," corrected Sheppard, "you're Royce's supervisor, and have been trying to make a closer connection with your staff member; remember?"

"It's settled then," nodded Weir. "Let's see how it plays out. If there are problems, the guards are right there; and we can always loop Royce in when we feel it necessary."

The decision favoring the status quo hung in the room, more comfortably with some than others. Seeing acceptance, if not actual agreement, from everyone, Weir shifted to another, unrelated issue. "Now Rodney, speaking of SAWgate, how about a quick update on the progress you've been able to make with the Ancient logs, the beacon debris, Wraith materializers, etc?"

McKay's face was no brighter for the change to this topic, but at least it interested and involved him more…

* * *

NOTES

1. This line of dialogue borrowed from _Michael_ (SGA 2.18), written by Carl Binder.

2. Teyla's initial dialogue here borrowed from _Michael_ (SGA 2.18), written by Carl Binder.


	10. Day Eighteen  continued

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY EIGHTEEN (cont.)

"Come in!"

The residence doors opened to reveal Michael, flanked by his ubiquitous escorts.

"You're here," started Max, wiping his hands as he moved toward the door from the hotplate at which he'd been working.

"You said seven…," reminded his dinner guest.

"So I did. Most people come a little late, so as not to seem too eager."

Michael looked concerned that he'd made another faux pas. "But I am eager," he confessed, as if it were suddenly a bad thing.

Unable not to smile at the honesty, Max assured, "It's fine, Michael, really. Punctuality is too rare; and I'm flattered by your enthusiasm for my cooking. Please come in," he waved. Turning to the guards to see if they would like something to eat or drink too, he didn't get a word out before they had turned away and assumed sentry positions on either side of the closing door.

Michael abruptly handed him a paper bag and explained as he cautiously looked inside. "Teyla said that it is polite among our people to bring a gift when visiting others' homes. So I asked the nice woman in the Dining Hall for some tater tots, 'to go.'" He smiled proudly at his mastery of a custom he should know well and at his maintenance of the connection with his new friend.

Royce pulled out the plastic-wrapped parcel of still-warm, press-formed potatoes, and laughed at the odd, but so well-intentioned gesture. Michael was trying so hard to bridge-build.

Fishing out one for himself, he let Michael take one as well, to complete the ceremony, and then dumped them into a small bowl. "How about I set these out as an appetizer, as I'm afraid I'm still preparing the meal. I'm a little behind. It was my turn to have a sit down with Dr Heightmeyer; seems she's yet another official who makes a point of checking in with newcomers. Anyway, I wasn't expecting that late afternoon appointment; so please make yourself at home while I finish the stir fry."

"I look forward to trying 'stir fry'," Michael responded honestly, ignoring the mention of frustrating counseling sessions, and instead looking around the room with great curiosity. He had only seen his own quarters, and they were so sparsely furnished he wondered actively what a person's space _should _look and feel like. There were so many signs of a life here to see!

Max continued working between the makeshift kitchen and the table, as Michael made his way around the room. He reviewed a packed bookshelf, not really knowing any of the titles or most of the alphabets, and so quickly focused on the decorations above it. "These images are of your home and family?"

"Those photos are of family and friends, and some of the more beautiful places I've been or lived, yes. The painting in the center is a grove of giant trees in California, my second favorite place in the whole world. Well, on Earth, anyway..."

"And these are your offspring?" the visitor asked, picking up photo of two grinning little boys.

"No, they're my… nephews of sorts," the host added, as he stepped beside his guest, shaking a bottle of something. "That's some of my collegemates with me on the grounds at Magdalen College. And that one, that's me, my mother and father at Angor Wat –a famous temple in Cambodia."

"And him?"

Max momentarily stopped mixing the dressing, and stared at the photo Michael had picked up. "That's Evan, my friend in the Infirmary."

Michael looked carefully at the man, sitting and smiling in an aircraft cockpit, alongside which was stenciled his rank and name under the word "Dune." He'd overheard the title and name mentioned by one of the medical personnel at some point, and suddenly made a connection. Turning to face Max, his question and guilt poured out, "Was he injured rescuing me? Teyla mentioned that someone was injured on the mission when I was found. If that was your friend hurt for my sake, I'm so sorry, Max. I-"

Max smiled at the concern, but reassured, "Evan wasn't on a rescue mission when he was injured; it was a recon that resulted in a prisoner, but no rescues. Besides, injury is one of the many risks and sacrifices made in the military, and families know that's part of the package. Evan- Major Lorne is good at and loves the work, risks and all. So, please don't falsely add that guilt to your plate of troubles. He'll be well soon enough, as will you, I'm sure. I look forward to re-introducing you."

Michael looked up at him with a twinkle in his eyes that suddenly struck Max as achingly familiar; he realized why this stranger was so… comfortable, out of all the many people he'd met here in Pegasus. "You actually remind me of him in many ways. I expect you did or will get along well." Catching himself, he resumed mixing the dressing and headed back to the dining area.

Michael smiled at the approving sentiment, smarting at the same time from the need to be _re-_introduced to someone he should likely already know. One more hole in his past, and yet another new lesson for his future… Not recognizing the faces, places or significance of any of the pictures, his eye was caught by another collection of framed certificates over the desk nearby. "And these papers say 'Maximus Joshua Royce;' that's you?"

"Yeah; sounds like a Transformer or a _Harry Potter_ character, huh?" chuckled Max.

Michael stared at him blankly, so he explained as he set the bottle of dressing on the table and headed back to his cooking. "Popular children's shows back home; never mind. My mother is a classics professor, and named me for one of her favorite Roman generals. The neighborhood kids nicknamed me 'Gluteus,' so it got shortened to 'Max' very quickly."

He grinned knowingly back at Michael, only to be greeted again by a polite, but uncomfortable smile of non-recognition. "I'm sorry, Michael. I keep making cultural references, forgetting that they might not mean anything to you yet. I don't mean to…"

"It's OK," Michael reassured him, approaching and looking over his shoulder at the large pan of sizzling vegetables. "When you do it, it makes me feel like you don't see me any differently. Where everyone else treats me like I'm fragile or can't handle too much detail, you just let it all out. I like it."

Max's heart ached at the sorrow of Michael's situation, and the ironic similarity to his own: where Michael felt everyone had secrets they wouldn't share with him, his own situation was reversed. Perhaps that's another reason why they got along so well.

With an affirming and grateful pat to Michael's arm, Royce turned them toward a small, low table where two place settings were arranged opposite one another. "Well, in the interest of continuing that honesty," he confessed with unnecessary humility, "I should warn you that I'm not much of a cook. But I have gotten pretty good with a simple wok."

Directing Michael to a firm cushion on the floor, he joined him with the steaming bowl of crisply sautéed vegetables. Picking up a pair of chopsticks, he modeled how to use them as he continued to apologize, "It's all vegetarian; I hope that's OK."

Quickly learning how to use his utensils, Michael paused with a bundle of peas and sprouts dangling precariously. "I don't know whether or not I like vegetarian. What does it taste like?"

"Not chicken," Max smiled, nodding him to try it. "It's not what the food is made of; it's a description of any food that doesn't contain any meat, no animals."

"You don't eat any meat?"

"No. While at university, I decided to stop eating meat, to become a vegetarian."

"Why?"

"Well, I just didn't like the idea of something's having to die to feed me, when I didn't need it to live."

"But this…?" Michael gingerly held up a pale yellow piece from his plate.

"…'Broccoli-like vegetable,'" Royce named as best he could, as they continued to eat.

"Isn't it killed when it's cut, cooked and digested?"

"True," granted Max. "Like all living things, I… we require sustenance; we must eat something in order to survive. I've just made a conscious choice regarding that biological imperative, not to feed on a large number of other creatures when there are… less-aware alternatives. My biology needs nourishment, but I choose to control it conscientiously."

"It's a shame we can't get the Wraith to make such choices. Maybe they could become vegetarian?" Michael suggested.

"I'll toast to that!" smiled Max, reaching over and tapping his chopstick-held tofu to Michael's.

Michael mirrored his smile, but stared at the gesture.

Max explained, "It's a custom for showing agreement or solidarity. Normally we'd tap our drink glasses together; I just improvised."

"Sorry, I don't remember that one either." He sighed and cataloged, "I can speak and understand English in general, but not all the everyday sayings. A lot of the technology makes sense to me; I even recognized Wraith schematics on Rodney McKay's computer yesterday. But I don't know or miss my family. And I know that I should; I feel bad not remembering. But, I understand friendship, like with Teyla and with you. And I enjoy that."

"Here, here," echoed Max, waving his broccoli in agreement. "I'm no psychologist; but I'd bet that it can all come back in time. It's probably good to concentrate on what does seem familiar or most interesting, and see if that can jog additional memories. What else have you noticed around the City, or in your interactions with others?"

"Well, I noticed that the style and color of people's clothing seems to indicate their roles and status in the community; but I'm still not clear on which symbols mean exactly what."

Max nodded at the insights.

"And I noticed that you were right about how people tend to group up: the military uniforms together, and science colors with other sciences. And people with the same little… little flags on their shoulders, they hang out together a lot too."

"You've got quite the eye for social dynamics. If soldiering doesn't work out, we might get you some science division khakis," laughed Max.

Michael blushed at the apparent compliment, and offered one more observation. "And, I've noticed that space and touch is really different between men and women; women tend to stand closer to one another and to men, than men do to one another." He reached over and took Max's free hand. "Why don't men touch?"

Max started a bit at the forward gesture; but not wanting to derail the learning, just slowly slipped his hand away to scratch his head as he thought aloud. "Um, wow. Good insight and question. I guess, like most societies recognizing two primary biological sexes, we have developed differing expectations of behavior for the two groups. In many human cultures, at least on Earth, women tend to share more physical closeness with others, I guess as part of an expectation that they be nurturing, ultimately for child-rearing. While men- men are expected to be more independent and territorial; for hunting maybe?" He laughed nervously, "I can tell you a lot more about gender in language systems than in people, I'm afraid. Did you really deduce those patterns yourself?"

Michael nodded, but still dropped his chopsticks and slumped down on his cushion, letting out another long sigh. "There is so much I don't know; I have how many years of everyday life to relearn?"

Max tried to reassure his dinner guest. "Michael, I've spent most of my life in school, learning in some form or another. I realize that's a very different situation than yours; but learning in itself isn't a bad way to spend your time." He pincered a tater tot from its bowl, pointing out, "Besides, you're picking things up quickly. And, since you're doing it as an adult, you can be a lot more intentional about what you learn, and how you let it influence you."

"I guess it could be fun. It's just that I don't feel like I'm gaining much, not learning fast enough. I know my name, where I'm from and the general story of what happened to me. But I can't remember anything, and everyone seems hesitant to tell me anything else. Ronon seems to want me dead for some reason. You and Teyla are the only people who socialize with me at all; and even she seems hesitant, like she's holding back." He looked up suddenly and gazed directly at Max, asking with the utmost curiosity, "Why are you different?"

Max laughed aloud, "Michael Kenmore, you really do ask the most profound questions! I'm afraid that even without amnesia, explaining who one is and why, those are lifelong questions we all struggle with. Ask me again in fifty years, and we'll see if I'm any closer to an answer."

Michael looked at him, wholly unsatisfied with the deferral.

Seeing the displeasure, but having no idea how to provide the requested existential treatise, Max set down his chopsticks, inhaled and offered instead a data point toward that larger inquiry. "Part of who we are is what we like: for me that includes languages, stir fry, redwood groves, and good music. And speaking of which," he jumped up and opened the laptop on his desk. "I searched through some of the entertainment files in the Expedition network, and found a few that I thought you might like. It's a total stretch, but…" He hit the last few keys on the computer, and a deep, twanging guitar melody came through the attached speakers, startling Michael briefly until he realized it was supposed to happen.

"What is it?"

"It's called 'country' or 'western'; it's a musical style very popular in Texas. I thought it might jog a few memories for you, or at least sound familiar enough to bring a little a comfort. Anything?"

"Sorry," Michael shook his head dejectedly. "Do we just listen to it?"

"Well, like most music, you can also sing along or dance to it. But I'm afraid I don't know the words or any country dances; this style is not one I'm a particular fan of."

"What's your music like then? Can you dance to it?"

"Well, the music most popular where I live in California is rock or alternative, maybe a little techno/club."

Michael stared at him blankly.

"Don't worry about the names; they're hard to explain, since they don't really have set movements," Max explained.

Michael continued to blink.

"I'm not making much of a music teacher, am I?" He thought for a moment, and suggested, "Let's try something called 'classical'; a lot of examples of this genre that have specific dances associated would be easier to explain." He grabbed his iPod and scrolled through its menu before plugging it into the speakers. "Here's one called a 'waltz,' that is made to be danced to."

"Show me," asked Michael plainly.

**"**I'm not a good dancer," demurred Max.

Michael shrugged and smiled, "I won't know the difference." He put down his napkin, jumped up and stepped into the middle of the room. "Teach me. Please? This _interests_ me."

A little taken aback at the challenge, Max glanced at the door, toward the two armed guards beyond it and the larger system they represented for him and another specific man in uniform. "Michael, it's really not appropriate for us…"

Michael's whole person slumped as yet another disappointment crowded his brief experience. "Why, Max? You brought it up; so it can't be one more thing that's supposed to be kept from me. And what if this is a prompt that might help me remember something? In our sparring, Teyla said that I was doing well, something about 'muscle memory.' What if this movement is another chance for me to rebuild what I've lost? Is this 'waltz' really so bad I should miss that possibility?"

"It's not the dance itself. Maybe you could ask Teyla to show you…?" Max tried to suggest as an alternative.

"Does Teyla know about how to do a waltz from Earth?" Michael looked at him, fully knowing the answer.

Despite the uniform, and the memory loss notwithstanding, Max couldn't get past the purely plaintive look in Michael's eyes, his clear need to make some connection to something, to someone. But this is not where the music lesson or the evening was intended to go; dancing with a male military officer—this one anyway, was just asking for it…

"Please, Max? For me?"

Arguing to himself that this was a selfless service, and no one was watching anyway, he finally sighed, nodded, smiled with a little more confidence than he felt and stepped over to awkwardly stand in front of the keen student. "Fine, but just a few steps—so you can see it, because traditionally only a man and a woman dance these together; and the roles are specific."

A living clean slate, with no hesitations around what tradition dictated, Michael simply smiled and asked, "What do we do?"

"Nothing untoward… Um, look, the dancers face one another," he described as he stepped up to stand face-to-face with his pupil. "The man, or the one who will lead, places his hand on his partner's waist. The partner places her—his opposite hand on the leader's shoulder. And they clasp their other hands out to the side." Glancing regularly at the door, he then followed his own narrative, hesitantly placing his hand in the lead position, while Michael adopted the follower's stance without any delay, and looked expectantly at Max as the music continued.

Remembering to give simple, literal instructions to someone who couldn't remember seeing, much less participating in any dance of any kind, Max talked and moved them through a simple three-count box waltz. After a few false starts and stomped toes, Michael caught on quickly; and together they gradually added greater movement, swirl and flourish as they got comfortable.

"You're a natural, Michael; very graceful," Max encouraged quietly, losing himself in the whirling motion, the comfort of the contact, and the childlike glee that his partner exuded. He thought briefly of how his nephews would throw their heads back, eyes and mouth open wide, and giggle hysterically when spun around wildly. Michael had that same unbridled joy about him at the perhaps unfamiliar, but nonetheless engrossing motion. Only a solid stature and the fierce energy in his eyes belied the grown man who was lost in this tactile game.

Like most undisciplined dancers, they gradually sped up as they moved, despite the constant beat—sweeping in larger and larger, swifter and swifter circles in the small room. It wasn't long at all before their circuit outgrew the available open space, and Max stepped backward into the bed along the windows. Surprise and momentum were too great to resist, and the pair landed forcefully on the soft surface as this music continued. Max's arms wrapped instinctively around Michael, as if to anchor himself against the fall; Michael landed in a push-up position over Max, just stopping their faces from smashing into one another.

They stared intensely at one another, both surprised, but neither actually uncomfortable; each unsure what had happened and what would. And neither could break the clear connection between them.

Michael swallowed nervously, deeply breathing in the scent of the man before him, and slowly shifted his weight to one arm. But rather than rolling off of or letting Max shift from under him, he gently ran the fingers on his freed hand down Max's flushed cheek and then laid his open palm on Max's chest.

They both could feel both their pulses pounding, and the urgent pressure of the hand above the heart.

Their eyes searching the other's for some direction, they shared the endless moment unblinking and achingly aware of:

Sweat…

Adrenaline...

Energy…

Attraction…

Need…

Hunger!

Max suddenly became aware that the familiar feelings evoked a familiar name and face, and they were not those of, "Michael." He swallowed loudly and blinked. "Michael?" He shifted his hands from his companion's back to his hips, "Michael! We should probably get up." He pushed at Michael's resting weight.

He watched Michael slowly, reluctantly come back into focus, forcibly shifting his attention from the primal contact to their larger reality.

Looking down at the hand locked to his friend's chest, Michael pulled it away sharply and stepped off, up and away with a mortified look.

Anchoring weight removed, Max slid off the bed and settled onto the floor, graceless and still somewhat dazed.

Like a crew-cut Lady Macbeth, Michael stared at his offending hand, finally stammering, "I'm sorry, Max. I've done something I shouldn't have. Again. I- I- I'm sorry. I should go."

As a matter of sheer polite habit, Max reassured him, "No, Michael, it's OK; it's just…"

The other man visibly wilted, awash in powerful but confused emotions. His face contorted, as if to cry or cry out, "I'm sorry. I don't understand. It felt right. It was the first thing that… Somehow, it felt right."

Reacting to the distress, Max rallied his attentions, and pushed himself up onto the edge of the bed. He patted the place beside him, inviting, "Michael, sit. It's OK. Please, sit." He wrung his hands anxiously without making eye contact, as Michael obliged for lack of any other idea what to do next.

They sat beside one another silent and still for a moment. Michael attempted to both relish and recover from the intense rush that the connection had brought him; aside from the terror of his Wraith nightmares, this was the single most encompassing emotion he could remember. And as this one was positive, he wanted to get back to it. But for that he needed Max, who was clearly not well with whatever they had shared.

Beside him, Max intentionally flattened his hands atop his knees, to keep from pummeling himself with his own fists. Had he really let himself come that close to this relative stranger? _Stupid! _Was the man so similar to Evan that his touch would substitute for reassuring contact when Evan was beyond reach and reciprocation? _Weak!_ And for at least the occupational similarity, why had he risked outing them all because it was nice to be close to someone? _Selfish! _This was exactly the danger he's worried about since realizing Evan was here too—only despite his own warnings, he'd somehow managed to add his fidelity and another, if unwitting career, to the list of casualties. _You stupid, short-sighted, weak, selfish sod! _Now unless he could fix this, two good men were at risk because of him.

Max finally gathered his thoughts enough to narrate, "Michael, you don't owe me any apology, and you didn't do anything wrong. You're an amazing person, whether you know it or not; and I have really enjoyed spending time with you. But that kind of physical intimacy, and the possible feelings behind them, they're—problematic. Until you get your memory back, well, we have no idea whether you have a special someone at home, or whom you might be interested in. And regardless, I… I do have someone." He ran his hand reassuringly, if guiltily, over the pendant under his shirt.

Pulling himself off that unhappy vector, he explained, "And beyond all that, more importantly even, you're a member of the US military; and they have very clear rules about how men and women can behave, like we talked about earlier. You could get into serious trouble for being too… close… with another man. So, it's best that you not say anything about the… dance, to anyone else. Does that make any sense? For your own good, you can't tell anyone about this."

Michael sat perfectly still, looking completely overwhelmed. Finally, he buried his face in his hands, "I can't do this, Max; I don't understand any of it: I remember nothing beyond a few days ago, and very little of the past few days makes any sense at all. I'm supposedly a valued member of the military here; but I'm the one with two armed guards on me all the time like I'm some kind of prisoner. And Ronon attacked me yesterday when Teyla and I were sparring…"

"What?"

"…And I have no idea why; no one will tell me." He stood, exasperated, turning back to Max with cool but growing fury in his tone. "I don't like all these unknowns and these secrets, Max. It's very clear everyone else is keeping things from me. Big things. _Every_thing. And now even you're asking me to be secretive about this—the one innately honest, true thing I've known. Why? What happened to me? What did I do? What am I?"

Conversationally fluent in more than two dozen languages, literate in many more, Max could only sit quietly and mirror his friend's uncomfortable ignorance.

Not surprised at the silence, Michael clenched his fists and growled at the futility of it all, before stalking out of the room.

Max jumped up after him, but managed only to move away from the incriminating bed before one escort glanced into the room and asked, "Dr Royce, is everything alright?"

Royce forced a smile onto his face and assured, "Fine, Corporal. I'm fine. Just very different tastes in music," he shrugged amicably.

The Marine gave him one more thorough look over, before nodding and jogging off to rejoin his mobile assignment.

In the background, the music randomizer moved to the next selection obliviously; and a few familiar electronic beats swelled up, before a breathy voice instructed, "Say goodnight and go…"

Max cursed at the computer in four languages, muttering, "Not now, Imogen."(1) As she continued rubbing his face in the mixed emotions of the evening, he threw himself back on the bed and buried that face in a pillowful of frustration.

**

* * *

**

DAY NINETEEN

The next morning's extra-long solo run had done little to improve on Royce's fitful sleep or generally foul mood; and a swing by the Infirmary, a quick consult with McKay on the SAWgate journals and the multi-layered mess with his newest friend meant the day wasn't likely to get any better. So he reacted without really thinking when the gruff shout came up the side corridor.

"Hey!"

"Horses eat it," panned Royce without stopping.

"What?" asked the distracted and now annoyed-looking Satedan, as he effortlessly caught up.

"Bad homophone joke; never mind," said the failed humorist.

"I hear you had Michael Kenmore to your quarters for dinner last night."

"I didn't take you for one to get caught up in the gossip mill," laughed Royce at the thought. _Michael did have an escort, so it wasn't like it was a secret_, he reminded himself as a little anxiety at his own observation crept in. _Shite, what exactly _was_ the grapevine saying?_

Whether not understanding the reference or not caring, the Satedan just stared at him as they walked, awaiting a confirmation or denial.

"Yes, Ronon. I cooked for Lt Kenmore last night. It wasn't a big party; but if I hurt your feelings by not inviting you, I'm sorry. Would you like to join me for breakfast now? It's not quite homemade, but…"

"No."

"OK. Well if today doesn't work, perhaps—"

"You need to stay away from him."

Royce stopped in his tracks and turned to face the larger man. Motivations poured through his mind: Dex had befriended Royce first, and didn't appreciate his attention to the newcomer. As a friend of Evan's, Ronon didn't appreciate the appearance of BFF impropriety during Lorne's incapacitation. Dex had… intentions himself that the Earthling was competing with. Michael really was a threat, hence the guards; and Dex was—for any number of good intentions—trying to protect him from that danger. "Ronon, what's the big deal with the Lieutenant?"

"You don't know anything about him."

"I know everything he knows, which is actually about the same depth of back story I have on you. So what's the problem? What's so secret or scary about him?"

"I just need you to trust me," avoided Dex, looking around uncomfortably.

"…When you won't trust me? Either with more information, or to be able to take care of myself? Trust needs to flow two ways." _What the hell have I gotten myself into?, _he wondered amidst a rising tide of thoughts and emotions. _With Michael? With this whole place? And who I am to lecture anyone on mutual trust when I ended up in bed—ON the bed, with another man while my partner is comatose!_

Ronon gritted his teeth, and opened and closed his fists, clearly struggling with his own consideration of whether and what he could or should share.

Confused in his own thoughts, Royce finally turned and continued toward the Mess Hall, softening his tone but not his stride in the hopes of de-escalating the apparent standoff, "If this is about my safety, I appreciate the concern. But they do let him walk around; he's not in the brig. So how dangerous can he really be?"

"He has two armed Marines with him at all times," said his shadow, granting no ground on any front.

"Exactly. So, should anything happen, it's three on one."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is, Ronon? Is it that you can't tell me what you know, or you don't really have a reason? Huh?" Happy to have someone else on the morality and honesty hot seat rather than himself, he peppered the taller man with questions, before finally stopping to face him again. "Look, I faced down a very scary Satedan soldier, and decked the astrophysical personification of egocentrism; I can handle an amnesiac airman. If you want me to do something more, you're going to have to give me something more specific to work with." He raised his eyebrows expectantly, making space for further disclosure.

But only more tense silence emanated from the dreaded herald of vague danger.

"Well, there we are," summarized Royce, unsatisfied but unsurprised.

"Just be careful," stressed Dex, before plodding off with more than a little agitated frustration in his step.

Royce nodded politely to the Japanese and Australian technicians who passed by, greeting them fluently with their respective native "good mornings." Hands back to his hips, his smile dropped away immediately as he was now all the more perplexed and frightened by the "Michael" situation. Whether for his own benefit as Ronon implied, or for his new friend's, he needed more information on this, his second troubled Air Force officer. To both ends, he needed answers. He needed someone in the know who could empathize with him and/or the Lieutenant. He needed to talk to Teyla.

* * *

The Athosian leader had almost finished putting away her cleaned laundry, the last of her morning tasks before reporting to one of the botany labs to assist with cataloging the names and uses of the week's garden of Pegasus finds. With the growing concerns about her newest "friend" weighing heavily on her conscience, she was looking forward to a few hours in the cool quiet of familiar growing things.

She was also nearly due for a proper visit to her people on the mainland, where even the petty squabbles and hard work in the fields provided a comforting change, a centering, for her. Perhaps she could find a pilot to slip her over for a few hours sooner than scheduled. The sound of the door chime suggested that search might have to wait…

She swiped the portal open, and was greeted by a smiling face, which bowed respectfully to her, "Ms Emmagan, do you have a moment?"

"Dr Royce; yes, of course."

"Please call me 'Max'."

"Max," she nodded amicably. "Please come in; and call me 'Teyla.'"

"Thank you," he said as he followed her into the obviously non-Terran décor. "I am sorry to bother you in your quarters; and I know we're scheduled to meet again next week regarding Pegasus languages, but… I wondered if I could ask you about something—someone else."

The Athosian leader's face dropped noticeably before she caught and corrected the expression. She knew Michael had gone to Max's quarters for dinner, that for the first time—as far as she knew—Michael had been out of sight of those who knew his background, and alone with someone who didn't. Had something happened?

Not surprised by her immediate intuit of the subject or her reaction, Royce presented an offering of two mugs, "I know it's well past daybreak, and that this isn't your people's stout tea; but I brought some of my people's blend in the hopes we might speak over the sharing."

She smiled honestly, accepted her mug and waved him toward an area of thick rugs and cushions. He mirrored her cross-legged comfort and railrod posture; they nodded and drank to officially begin the interaction.

"I am sorry we have not had the opportunity to speak beyond the mission to Meerux," began the host politely. "I understand that you have made a quite favorable impression with many of my people and also many here in Atlantis; a number of the Earth personnel have reported their pleasure at having someone with whom to engage in their native language. As the only of my people here in the City, I can appreciate the comfort such familiar reminders of home can bring."

"You are very kind to say so, and to share some time with me this morning, as gracious as your people have also been to me and to all of us... Living and working in an area of Earth where many peoples gather and many languages are spoken, the collection of tongues here is also comforting to me. And I look forward to sharing more with your people and their many friends across this galaxy."

Max nodded and sipped his tea again, before fast-forwarding through the normal measured pleasantries. "More immediately, I am hoping you might be able to help me help Lt Kenmore." He noted she intentionally took another sip from her mug, allowing or urging him to say more before she spoke again. "Given how closely monitored Michael is, and knowing that he's been speaking with you as well, I assume you know that he and I have struck up a sort of friendship over the past few days."

"Yes," she smiled. "He has mentioned how much he has enjoyed your conversations. It has been very kind of you to show him that openness, especially given his… condition."

"It's not pity."

"I did not mean to suggest…"

"Of course," he assured her, not wanting his hurry to jeopardize either short-term answers or longer-term relations. "He has also spoken thankfully for your time with him; and says that you and he were friends before… well before whatever happened. But, no one will tell him anything beyond the most general storyline of his capture, rescue and previous life…"

"Dr Heightmeyer feels it is best not to overwhelm him with details too quickly; better to let him come to the memories on his own."

"And I can see the wisdom in that. However, as I sure you have observed as well, he is very much struggling to recall anything; and I'm worried that his frustration is actually blocking his recovery. What's more, Michael is convinced that everyone is actually keeping critical things from him, and not for health reasons. I thought he was just being suspicious, but not thirty minutes ago Ronon told me to stay away from him, implying I was in some danger but refusing to say why. I can understand protecting Michael from overload, but protecting me? And then there are the ever-present guards…"

Teyla's brow knitted as she looked down into her mug intently.

Royce relaxed his posture and leaned in slightly, setting his hands on the floor between them. "More important than me, I believe that in an effort to be a good friend to him, I have added to his distress. He left dinner in my quarters last night upset; and I am concerned for him. Since he doesn't wear a radio and he wasn't in his quarters, I tried to find him in the Expedition directory. But there are only a handful of vague mentions of him in the whole network, nowhere near what there are for even the newest arrivals. Not only does he not know who is he, apparently very few others in Atlantis do either…"

He leaned a little lower, trying to make eye contact despite her tea focus. "Teyla, what happened to Michael? Who is he?"

* * *

NOTE

1. PLAYLIST: Imogen Heap's _Goodnight and Go, _released in September 2005.


	11. Day Nineteen  continued

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY NINETEEN (cont.)

"Please, Teyla; not for me, for Michael. What is his terrible secret?" While the irony of asking for something he'd fight against revealing wasn't lost on Max, this revelation could help him protect himself and his own, and help Michael too.

She smiled nervously at him, not sure why that expression sprung up as she struggled with whether and what to share. As guilty and doubtful as she had grown about the lies that she and the others were perpetrating, not just to Michael, but also to Max, perhaps he was her opportunity to confess and find some comfort in someone who shared her growing reservations. In his short time in her galaxy, this new stranger from Earth had shown himself to be friendly, curious, sincere and respectful; and beyond the regular visits to Major Lorne in the Infirmary, had he not just sought her out, driven by his own concern for Michael? He knew nothing of the other man, except that he needed a friend; for no reason other than compassion, he felt compelled to stand up for him, to support and help this stranger solve the mystery, to find the truth. Did that not speak to his character and honor? Should she not reflect that strength, with her own honesty?

And yet, she had agreed to uphold the illusion of Michael, for Michael. Maintaining the game for the former Wraith meant attempting to continue it for Max as well, hoping he could help make the experiment a success. Because a successful, permanent transformation meant her people—all the people of the Pegasus Galaxy and even beyond, might soon be free from the culling threat they had always known. Was that not worth a few half-truths or careful evasions this morning? Was that goal not what Max himself, and all the Expedition members, had undertaken—a defense against and defeat of the Wraith? And so, what words could she share with this master of languages to calm his concern, at least enough to have him play his part a bit longer?

"Teyla? I'm sorry to have broached this subject so bluntly; I apologize if I have offended you in speaking so plainly so soon." Max was trying to maintain his respectful approach, while still pressing her for some response. "Please also forgive me when I say that, honestly, your hesitation now does not much reassure me that there isn't something significant going on. Please?" He maintained direct, plaintive eye contact with her.

She smiled, looking about in not overly exaggerated embarrassment at not knowing what to say or saying it sooner. "There is no need to apologize, Max; I am pleased to see your fierce commitment to your new friend, and am honored that you feel you can speak to me about it. It is I who am sorry for not responding more quickly." More than honestly, she paused and looked around their shared space. "I am trying to determine what more I can say, while still respecting Michael's… privacy."

"Of course," Max acknowledged, calmer and sitting back at the apparent confirmation of her concern for Michael and her intent to share with him.

Both wondering in their own way what disclosure would be forthcoming, they both started when the next speaker in their conversation was an announcement over the city-wide PA system, "Doctor Royce, Doctorr Max Royce, please report to the Infirmary immediately."

* * *

With Teyla close behind him, Royce literally skidded around the corner as he barreled through the Infirmary toward Lorne's bed, the destination he assumed behind the summons. His elevated speed and face dropped quickly when he encountered the rest of Sheppard's team, Weir and Beckett crowded around the drowsy-eyed patient.

McKay tapped his wristwatch and whispered, "I win," to a smirking Sheppard who was pretending to ignore him.

"Max?" whispered Lorne hoarsely.

"I'm here, Vee," Royce called out with loud relief. He added the warning, "We're _all_ here."

And on hearing Evan speak, confirming he was in fact returned to the land of living—again, Max was also overcome by the desire to bound to the bed or burst into song… something to express his relief and to allay his need to feel a recovered response directly from Evan. But this was not the audience for that honesty or affection. So instead, and not entirely without bodily basis, he simply doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees with slightly exaggerated heavy breathing from his run from Teyla's quarters.

"Doctor Royce?" asked Beckett, moving toward him, instinctively true to his profession.

Royce held his hand up, explaining, "I sprinted the last bit; I just need a sec…" He masked wiping his wet eyes by pressing the heel of his hands against them, applying pressure to an honestly aching head.

"Are you sure you're OK, son?"

Standing up and locking watery eyes with those peering at him from the bed, Royce smiled honestly, "Couldn't be better." A grimace broke in on his face; and he burned a little more anxious energy by running his hands firmly through his hair. "But I could use an aspirin."

"We took a transporter," explained Teyla, who had placed a concerned hand on his back.

Royce nodded and took a deep breath, acknowledging that urgency had outweighed his apparent tech allergy.

"At some point soon, we really should talk about these headaches…," scowled the Head of Medicine, offering him two tablets.

Popping the pills, Royce nodded agreeably, clearly not wanting to be distracted from the reason he had this particular pain.

Also turning back to the interrupted discussion about Lorne's prognosis, Sheppard pointed out with a big grin on his face, "So Doc, the Major's got a mountain of paperwork piling up on his desk…"

Not doubting the likely permission, but aware that there was a packed gallery for the consultation, Beckett looked to and received the go-ahead nod from the patient. "Despite his obvious zeal to return to the world of military bureaucracy, Major Lorne will be with us for at least another day or two, to run a full set of neuro exams, and to regain his strength. It'll likely be some light physical therapy too, as he's been supine for nearly two weeks. For now, he needs to rest; so, please give him your best and let him get back to recuperating."

Royce hung back as Lorne's other friends and colleagues wished him well—patting, playfully punching and promising him overdue meals and workouts. Lorne vaguely registered the details, thankful for their encouragement to be sure, but eager to renew a different relationship.

For his part, Max was also pleased to see the more-than-professional connection Evan had formed with these co-workers; it was very clear beyond the statements Weir and others had made, that Evan was in fact part of a community here. But Max was also impatient for them to leave him to an eager commune of his own.

He was so eager that he did not notice a worried-looking Teyla pull Sheppard and Weir aside as they headed toward the Infirmary doors.

Redrawing the curtain and stepping bedside, Max ran a hand tenderly across the cheek nearly as pale as his own, and threaded his fingers into Evan's. He relished the returned pressure, even if not as strong as he remembered or would like.

They just took each other in for a moment, until Max glanced up to confirm the re-drawn curtain and then settled on the edge of the bed, pulling Evan's hand up to his chest. "Welcome back," he whispered with more catch in his voice than he'd intended.

Evan gently stroked his shirt, and whispered hoarsely, "I saw you…"

"You see me now."

"No, in the Gateroom, down the hall as we were staging… You saw me off to Meerux."

Royce blushed a little at being caught a fortnight earlier, but wasn't sorry that the sendoff had happened. "Knowing what had just happened on the planet, I couldn't not… I hoped you wouldn't notice."

"You know, you can't get into the habit of visiting the Gateroom every time I go off-world. First, you'll run out of pretenses to get you there…"

"I've had nearly two decades to get really creative at connecting and communicating with you without calling attention to me or us," Max reminded with a twang of doubt over more recent days. "Give me a little credit."

"I could get used to seeing you there," smiled the soldier.

"I don't want to get used to seeing you here," countered the sociolinguist, indicating the Infirmary with a glance.

"Dr Royce!" called Beckett gently but firmly from beyond the screens, causing them to each to pull away quickly.

"I'll be back as soon as I can; rest now," said the summoned. He leaned in quickly and gave Evan a lingering kiss and final brush of the cheek. "I love you."

Evan squeezed his hand, and added his "Verily" as Max grudgingly backed out of the screened bedspace…

* * *

A few minutes earlier, Dr Beckett had shooed everyone else out of the Infirmary, happy to reward the best friend's persistent vigilance with a few private moments, and relishing this medical victory himself. As he logged the painkiller into Royce's record and made a note to follow up on the headaches as threatened, another voice and potential success arrived.

"Dr Beckett is just through there."

The sincere "thanks" was followed around the corner by Michael, while his escorts' shadowed him at a respectful but ready distance. "Hi, Doctor Beckett," he said with a smiling but sheepish reserve.

Tapping the laptop to toggle away from Royce's photo and medical history, Beckett ratcheted his own energy level up for its understated but demonstrable therapeutic effect. "Lieutenant! What brings you into my shop this fine day?"

"I had another set of nightmares," the patient at-large volunteered. "I was just with Dr Heightmeyer; and she suggested I see you about something to help me sleep tonight." Kenmore's voice dropped slightly as he spoke, as if he was—or was learning to be—slightly embarrassed by the confession and/or affliction.

Not really surprised by the referral or request given the team consult meetings, Beckett didn't flinch as he reassured, "I'm sorry to hear that, Michael; but it's understandable in your situation."

He narrated them toward a medical cabinet, reaching in for a large bottle he'd pre-selected for just this occasion. "I'll give you a few of these basic sleep aids to try tonight. Hopefully they'll be enough to help you relax and sleep solidly through the night."

He handed Michael a smaller bottle into which he'd transferred a few pills of what was, in truth, a mid-strength sedative. "Take just one of these with some water as you get into bed. It can act quickly; so you don't want to be out and about, or in the middle of anything when it kicks in. If you're not asleep, you can take a second one no sooner than two hours later. But don't do more than that; we'll need to talk before trying any more or anything stronger."

"I understand. Thanks," nodded Kenmore, looking hopefully at the encapsulated escape. He glanced up at Beckett and started to speak before stopping, and then restarting. "By the way, Doctor, it might not be appropriate for me to say this, but…"

"Yes?"  
"Well, you don't look like you're getting much sleep either. Maybe you should try a couple of these yourself?" The thought was sincere, even if the smile was faux pas-wary.

Beckett smiled despite himself, his shoulders dropping. "You've a sharp eye, you; and a good heart." He clasped Kenmore on the shoulder, tipped his head toward the private bed, promising, "With Major Lorne awake, and you taking care of yourself, I just might get that good rest tonight."

Kenmore looked over at the screened area, "Lorne. That's Max's friend, right?"

"Aye. He's in there right now, and couldn't be happier."

Michael nodded as his face flashed with happiness, resignation and perhaps more. He glanced back at Beckett, agreeing, "I'm happy for him. But I have another journaling assignment from Dr Heightmeyer, physical therapy and then I may give these a try…" He rattled the pill bottle as he backed away hurriedly.

"Pleasant dreams," wished Beckett after him, instantly glad that Kenmore was too eager to leave to hear the potentially counterproductive reminder.

And anxious to resolve the stay-a-while-longer negotiation that would inevitably follow next, he called toward Lorne's bed, "Dr Royce!"

* * *

Michael hurried out of the Infirmary and stopped around the corner, both to examine the bottle and surreptitiously to see if Max would exit as well. As he waited, he considered how he was genuinely happy that his friend's friend was awake, that his friend would be happy. He also took some comfort that this explained why Max had not been available earlier in the morning. Having calmed down from the night before, he'd actually been irritated when he didn't find Max in his quarters or at breakfast as before. As much as the previous evening's event had confused and upset him, with the dreams and secrets and soreness and absent memories and fatigue, he still found being with and talking to Max comforting.

Knowing that this certain "medicine" was just a few steps away, attending to someone else in his moment of need, also raised a new feeling in Michael: he was a little jealous of this Major Lorne. Beyond the novelty of the feeling in itself, he pondered whether or not it was a positive sign for him—to feel a connection sufficiently to be bothered by even the slightest competition to it. What would Dr Heightmeyer make of this emotional development? What would Max? Or was this another exasperating nuance of normalcy he wasn't supposed to talk or be told about?

No, for now he would let his friend focus on other priorities; he chose to be happy for him. Max would not be going anywhere, and had expressed a desire to introduce—to _re_introduce him and the Major; so he only needed to be patient. Besides, he wasn't going anywhere either, except eventually to try the chemically-assisted slumber. He hoped the little bottle would bring him that rest, and with it answers and clarity.

In the meanwhile, perhaps even at lunch, he would work on his other relationships—with Teyla, Carson, Rodney, even Ronon, in the hopes that his growth and remembering would similarly be encouraged by those connections.

So resolved, he headed off from the Infirmary. Not far along his trip to his quarters, in fact, Colonel Sheppard and Ronon appeared in the corridor; and he saw a chance to be proactive with his colleagues…

* * *

The sun had long since gone down; and the Infirmary was again largely quiet, except for a soft a cappella tune that wound through the winding suite as it wound down.

A few moments after it faded away, a hushed voice broke the silence at a work station toward the back of the rooms. "Dr Beckett?"

The physician started from his drowsy daze, more than a little panicked that there was something wrong, that he was needed.

"It's OK," assured Royce as he came around the side of the desk where Beckett had been staring at the computer screen. "No emergency."

"Oh," relaxed the Scotsman, almost immediately trying to stifle a yawn. "That's good."

"I just wanted to say 'thanks'," chuckled the visitor.

"Aw, I really don't mind ya hanging about, as long as you're letting him rest…"

Royce grinned before explaining in all seriousness, "Not just for extending my visiting hours, Carson, but for everything. More important than your hospitality, you and your team are incredible healers too. Thank you."

Beckett blushed at the praise and reminded the midnight tenor, "Most of our work was nearly two weeks ago; you've been the attending musician since then. He didn't come back for us."

Blushing humbly at the turned table, Royce nodded acceptance of the mutual appreciation. "He's drifted off again; so I'm going to get some shut eye myself. You look like you could do with a little yourself…"

"Aye; so I keep being told," stretched Beckett. "Just keeping an eye on… an experiment in progress. Touchy stuff, cellular genetics."

"Well in the hopes you won't stay too much longer with a nearly empty and recovering house, I will pass the 'king of late night' title on to you. Keller better not tell me you were still at that desk when she comes on shortly," he smiled and threatened. Patting the lab-coated back, Royce headed toward the doors.

"Fair enough," laughed the swiveling doctor. "Oh, I'd forgotten to mention it earlier, but Michael Kenmore came in not long after Lorne woke up this morning. He was happy to hear that the Major was better."

Royce smiled and seemed relieved. "Good; I didn't realize I hadn't seen him for being here all day. I'll look him up first thing in the morning. Thanks for the heads up." Waving another 'good night,' he resumed his exit.

Beckett watched him slip in one last peek through the curtain for a final check on Lorne, before finally heading out. The doctor smiled after the continued vigilance until his laptop beeped for his attention, having completed its most recent analysis. Covering another yawn, he turned, looked up at his "Scenic Scotland" calendar to see what day it almost was, and then set about reviewing the completed report and beginning the progress projections that would wrap up yet another long day on assessing the status and prognosis of patient #4364.

* * *

Later that night, his alarmed voice spoke to a groggy Weir and Sheppard, as he jogged down the corridor with Marines in tow. "Come as quick as you can. He has his video records…"


	12. Day Twenty

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY TWENTY

Royce was on his feet as soon as the door opened early the next afternoon, showering questions on the city leaders as they entered the sparsely furnished room, "Elizabeth, Colonel, what the hell is going on? I was on my way to lunch when my headset was confiscated and I was escorted here under armed guard. What's happened?"

Weir calmly sat down at the table across from him, and motioned for him to join her. "I apologize for the abruptness of the meeting. But some… issues have come to a head this morning, and so we need to talk about an important but… sensitive subject."

Cold terror wiped the flush from his face and the next indignant demand from his throat. _Had Michael told them about the dinner and dance? Surely Jenn hadn't let slip anything; had someone else connected the dots? _He desperately wanted to launch into an explanation—a preemptive defense of Evan's exemplary military service, to rail against a petty policy, perhaps to make a bargain with them as both Sheppard and Weir were reasonable, compassionate people… But his anger, primarily at himself for not having immediately returned to Earth and avoided this whole mess, overrode his fear; and he held his tongue.

Weir looked at him sitting stiffly in the chair, jaw tense and eyeing them both with nervous agitation. Knowing there was no real need or way to be diplomatic with him, she just put it on the table. "Bluntly, Max, the man you knew as Michael Kenmore was actually a Wraith, to whom we'd given an experimental retrovirus that suppressed his Wraith genetics in favor of his human. I believe your Expedition orientation covered our theory of iratus bug-to-Wraith evolution? Dr Beckett has been working to reverse that process in individuals, in the hopes of developing a widespread means of pacifying the Wraith threat. Michael was our first test subject."

Relieved, confused and disbelieving, Royce stared at her blankly and then at Sheppard standing just behind her, looking for a sign that the joke was up. He laughed nervously, "Is this some kind of hazing prank? 'Let's take the piss out of the new guy…'? I mean, the 'Kick me' sign in Wraith was one thing in the lab, and the box of monogrammed airsick bags was cute; but this seems a bit late in the game and quite extreme…"

Both Weir and Sheppard stared back unresponsively at him, letting the facts stand for themselves.

Royce began looking around the room. "We're being taped, yes? I'm being _Punk'd_, Pegasus-style, right?"

Weir sat forward and clasped her hands on the table between them, "I know this must be hard to accept; but it is the truth. Michael didn't have amnesia as a result of being captured by the Wraith; his memories of being a Wraith were suppressed as a byproduct of the conversion process."

"And we made up the human back story to see how he'd do interacting with humans here on Atlantis…," added Sheppard.

Angry color swept back through Royce, this time almost entirely on his own behalf. "You set me up to befriend a Wraith as part of some science project?"

Weir held up a calming hand. "Your meeting Michael and building a friendship with him wasn't part of the original plan, Max; it just happened. But once it did, we wanted to see how he behaved with people who didn't know his history, to see whether he might be able to genuinely join human society."

Sheppard interrupted to remind, "And you'll remember that we had two Marines with him at all times; you were never in any danger."

As the reality of the situation began to sink in, Royce replayed his interactions with the socially awkward… person. "I had him over for dinner in my quarters. I showed him pictures of my family. We- Why the hell didn't someone tell me?"

"Max, given that you didn't know who he was and were still able to connect with him, we were hoping that indicated that this treatment might be a tenable way to neutralize the Wraith here in Pegasus."

"You're hoping to _literally_ make friends of the Wraith?"

"You gotta admit it's better than everybody trying to kill everybody else all the time," quipped Sheppard, hoping to appeal to the scientist's larger sense of justice. Seeing no softening of response, he changed the subject. "Now that you know, we need to ask you some questions about what you and Michael did and discussed, to see exactly what information about Atlantis, Earth, our technology and so on that he might have learned from you."

"You'll be happy to know that the only details he got out of me were about accents, vegetarian cooking and waltzes," offered Royce dejectedly, still grappling with the revelation and its many levels of implications.

"That's very reassuring," nodded Weir, almost sighing. "So with the security concerns addressed, I'm sure you won't mind our asking a few, more detailed questions, just to better understand the interactions you had, and be sure we know everything that happened to him…"

"Hang on," interrupted Royce, suddenly gaping openly at the two of them, aghast, as he realized the implications beyond his own deception. "You're telling me that you took a prisoner of war and have been conducting medical experiments on him?" He turned an accusing eye to Weir. "Elizabeth, I'm no law scholar, but that brings two words to my mind: Geneva and Convention."

"He's a Wraith," interjected an annoyed Colonel. "The laws of war don't apply to him."

Royce turned on him instantly, "But they do to you, Colonel. Morally, if not technically." And pulling Weir back into the arena, he continued, "And even if you argue that Wraith aren't covered parties, by your own argument, he's _human_ now. You made him so; you've intentionally given him status for legal and ethical coverage and then ignored your obligations. How dare you?"

Sheppard leaned over the table at Royce, increasingly angered either by the vehemence of his judgment, or perhaps by the truth of his points. "They wouldn't hesitate to do the same to us; they haven't, in fact."

"So we become them to defeat them; is that your clichéd justification?" posed Royce, gladly pointing out the tried and tired pattern of such arguments.

Sheppard turned away dismissively, "You haven't seen what they do, Doctor; you haven't been out here fighting them long enough."

"And maybe you've been 'out here' too long, Colonel. While I can certainly understand why, I wonder whether you've lost perspective." Not giving Sheppard the chance to respond, Royce turned back toward Weir and continued voicing the avalanche of objections that filled his head. "Does the IOA know you've done this? Does Stargate Command?"

Sheppard continued his explanation, for the benefit of the relative newcomer, "By nature of circumstances here, we have wide leeway to do what it takes to defend ourselves and defeat the Wraith."

"Any means to the end, eh, Colonel? Frankly, I expected better of you both," Royce judged and lamented, stonefaced. "You're the international affairs expert, Elizabeth; in exactly how many war crime courts has that defense stood up?"

Seeing the effort Royce was obviously making to balance his disdain with polite delivery, Weir intentionally calmed her own voice, and explained pleasantly, "Max, the goal of this project was to revert the Wraith to the pre-existing human aspects of their ancestry, so they wouldn't need to feed on us. So that they wouldn't be a threat any longer. So that we could 'all just get along.' In almost two years, we haven't yet been able to make that happen by diplomatic or direct military means. This opportunity presented itself; and so we made a good faith attempt to make this work. We hope it still can; and that's why we need your help to try again, first with Michael, then..."

"You intend to do this again?" exclaimed Royce, further appalled and less able to hide it.

"With regular dosage, the retrovirus is fundamentally successful. It's the long-term social integration that we need to figure out. And to that end, we're hoping we can learn from your interactions with him."

Royce dropped both arms on the table and thought aloud, "I can't think of a harsh enough word in any language I know to describe this…"

"Have you got a better idea, Misterr Been-Here-All-of-Three-Weeks?" asked Sheppard, the question dripping with doubt.

Royce thought a moment before meeting the gaze and challenge, "As a matter of fact, I do. Part of our undermining the Goa'uld was breaking their symbiosis with the Jaffa; one of the biologists said we came up with a chemical substitute for the Jaffas' reliance on symbiotes; 'tretonin,' I think it was?(1) If we've done it once and are so good with genetic manipulation, why couldn't we do something similar for the Wraith? Offer an alternative to feeding on humans, without otherwise changing who they are?"

Sheppard nearly guffawed at the idea. "You're suggesting we make the Wraith vegetarians?"

"Michael suggested it actually; but, yes. Seems a bit less grandiose than presuming to remake them entirely in our image."

The city's military commander pushed away from the table, and moved as if to escort Royce out, "Alright, Doc, I think we've heard enough…"

Royce turned to face him, but gave no indication he was amenable to stopping or leaving. "I don't actually report to you, Colonel, except in matters of base security. So unless my raising these uncomfortable questions is suddenly a threat to that security, creating a really interesting paradox for the Free Speech guaranteed me by the Constitution you've taken an oath to defend, I would suggest you stop trying to silence my concerns and instead address them." He turned back to the Expedition leader, his boss' boss. "You haven't even acknowledged the moral issues here, Elizabeth."

"Max," conceded Weir, "Obviously this is not without its… uncomfortable aspects; and I'm sorry that you were not informed earlier. But remember, none of us actually mislead you; your interactions with Michael were entirely your own, with no influence or interference from anyone else. And by all accounts, including your own, it seemed to be going well.

"As for Michael, he was never physically harmed; and we worked to minimize the… fabrications to what we absolutely had to tell him. I believe you were well aware of how little he was actually told, as you and he both struggled with that lack of information. To be honest, we really didn't have a lot to tell him; we struggled every step with what to do next."

Royce chuckled aloud, shook his head and rubbed his eyes, continuing to reel at the obvious absurdity of the whole situation.

Weir looked to Sheppard, who was clearly ready to give up on the whole interaction.

The linguist spoke with increasing vehemence before they could silently make any decision on proceeding. "I think that's what really bothers me most about all this. And FYI, this is atop a long and growing list... For all your undoubtedly good intentions, you made no contingency for success. You knowingly set out to create a human being, but gave no thought to what you'd do with or for him once made. You literally made a person, for the express purpose of experimentation, with no plan for any kind of even medium-term care. How long did you think you could maintain this amnesia charade? What were you going to do to this person when you couldn't string him along any further?

"If you'd bred a baby, we wouldn't even be having this conversation; the case would be clear cut. But because he's fully grown, you thought you could sidestep those obvious ethical boundaries." His anger deflated to utter disappointment. "Whether you set up him up through negligence or intentional abuse—either way, it honestly doesn't suggest much confidence in the integrity of your leadership. I have to say I'm gobsmacked; from everything else I know, I really would have expected so much better from you both…"

Weir's jaw flexed, as Sheppard opened and clenched his fists in the background.

"I'd like to see him," calmly demanded Royce.

"No chance!" reacted Sheppard.

"Just because I'm appalled by what you've done here, doesn't mean I'm a Wraith sympathizer, Colonel," coolly stated Royce, despite the lingering red rage on his cheeks and neck. "I saw the videos; I've heard the stories; and I glimpsed their handiwork with the Meerim. But Michael isn't a Wraith; he's something new, something different. And we created him," he gestured, indicating the whole Expedition, "So, whether prisoner or patient, we have a responsibility to that person. And since it's clear you don't have his interests in mind at all, I'd like to see that you haven't gorked him out, vivisected him or worse." He stood and headed toward the door.

Sheppard stepped in front of him, daring him to try.

Royce's cheeks flushed again in renewed anger; but he maintained a cold tone as he stared down the senior military officer. "Am I a prisoner now too, Colonel? And what does that mean you can do to me? Tell me more lies? Have Ronon assault me? Strap me down and have Beckett inject me with something for the good of the order? Where exactly is that line again?"

"John…," quietly said Weir from behind them, causing both men to turn slightly. "Max, if you would like to see Michael, fine. But before you do, given that this must be quite a shock, I'd like you to speak with Dr Heightmeyer. In fact, she'll be expecting you."

Sheppard was slightly surprised by the apparent concession on Weir's part, as Royce sized up the absolute finality of her tone. Knowing the strength of her will from previous negotiations both here and on Earth, and knowing that a strong and equally unhappy Sheppard was well within striking distance, Royce chose to accept the offered next steps.

Seeing that decision on his face, Weir nodded to Sheppard who stepped clear of the door and spoke to Royce and the guards just outside. "The Marines will accompany you to Dr Heightmeyer's."

* * *

"You're angry," stated the Expedition psychiatrist pleasantly.

Perched irritably on the edge of her couch, Royce cocked his head to the side and shared his most sarcastic "no duh" expression.

"I think it's very understandable that you would be," she continued with an acknowledging smile. "Probably at the leadership team for letting you develop a friendship with Michael under false pretenses, and perhaps at yourself for letting it happen?"

"Actually, Doctor, I'm a lot angrier at 'the leadership team' for their Mengele-esque activities in the first place, and frankly, for being expected to soul-search with you before being allowed to check on what they've done to Michael now that their mad scientist lab is exposed. For Beckett especially, where's that 'do no harm' creed when we're giving cellular makeovers to prisoners?"

"You seem particularly concerned about the 'conversion' aspect of the situation."

"And as a medical professional you seem appallingly un-appalled." He relished the quick flash of irritation—whether at him or herself was unclear—that passed over her face, before her clinical detachment reasserted itself. "Yes, among my concerns is the presumption to transform someone –an entire group, from what they are into something more to our liking, more like us. The god-like gumption! I mean, I don't really care for Dr McKay; but I'm not going to rewrite his genes to be more agreeable, much less more Max-like. Tempting as the thought is."

Ignoring his poor analogy for the moment, and wondering if there was something additional or else afoot with McKay, she paraphrased, "Sounds like Rodney has really irritated you."

"You could start a support group."

Her non-descript expression didn't change.

Returning to his more significant concern, he resumed, "The kill or be-killed simplicity of war is one thing; and vampiric aliens in another galaxy may technically be a grey area in our legal code. But even beyond our own rules of armed conflict, the more fundamental audacity to unilaterally alter someone medically because we fear them? Even if we relish the safety of a galaxy soon to be populated by 'ex-Wraith', what does it mean that the cost of that utopia is essentially wiping out an entire species with whom, granted, we're in violent competition? Maybe I'm too sensitive from my own heritage, and I'm certainly not equating the situations; but this really rings of 'genocide' to me. That doesn't bother you at all?"

"We're not here to talk about me."

"Exactly! I was escorted to see you because 'we' apparently don't want to talk about these issues at all; 'we' would much rather sweep away Michael and Max, than consider the ethical implications of our final Wraith solution. And it's that active denial, Doctor, that really is most troubling to me. How can they have so easily made these immense decisions about the value and fate of an individual, a species? Who are they to take on that kind of social engineering power? I don't understand how she, Beckett or Sheppard could be part of this; I had such respect for them…"

"You don't think Dr Weir and the others have struggled with these decisions?"

"Have they?"

"I haven't been part of most of those discussions…"

"'Just following orders,' huh?" he accused icily.

Refusing to take the bait, at least for now, she stated simply that "Max, not to diminish the concerns you're raising, but honestly, I do wonder to what degree the intensity of your reaction is being influenced by your own identities. 'Final solution' and genocide allusions, 'conversion' therapy references—you're making a number of connections to historical and current social struggles on Earth, that might hit very close to home for you. Is the Michael situation the only issue we're dealing with here?"

As he composed a choice and diverse string of profanities to accompany his next "no shit, Sherlock" non-verbal, Elizabeth Weir's calm, but terse voice rang the through room without introduction. "May I have your attention, please. We have a security situation and need all personnel to clear the halls. Please immediately enter and remain in the nearest securable room until the 'all clear' is given. Again, all personnel clear the halls until further notice."

Doctor and client both looked up instinctively, and then at one another in a shared moment of 'what should we do?'. Royce acted first, standing and moving toward the door. In her first real break from clinical detachment, Heightmeyer stood and put an anxious hand out toward him. "Since we don't know what's happening, I think it best we both remain here, and let security handle the situation."

As if conjured, the doors opened and one of the Marine escorts looked in, counted heads and instructed, "We've been ordered to lock your door and remain on post out here. Please remain calm and inside the office." The door closed again, with a particular finality.

Royce strained toward the door, suggesting, "But, if this is Michael, he trusts me; maybe I can help."

Clasping her hands in front of her, and restoring her unruffled demeanor, the psychiatrist admitted, "I'd actually wanted to ask you about that: why you think Michael developed a connection to you? And, how _do_ you feel about him?"

* * *

That evening, Royce was ushered into the unfamiliar, stark space by the Marine guard. It was very unlike the rest of the City—dark, close and barren of any aesthetic appeal. The two armed guards, fingers on triggers, were literally the only variation to the room's uniformly spartan contents—they, and the cage in the center.

As his eyes adjusted, Max could see Michael through the slats that made up the holding cell, sitting clearly deflated on the floor at the far side. The prisoner didn't react to the sound of the door, the quiet footsteps as they entered, or even the uncomfortable silence as he was undoubtedly watched. Max just stood there for a moment, looking at the man before him, trying to imagine the monster he was alleged to be. But he could see only the friendly, confused and eager soul.

"Michael," he said finally, his voice hoarse and soft. "Michael?" he repeated louder.

"Don't call me that. It is not my name," came the irritated response, an apparent reaction simply to the label itself.

The strength fled again from Royce's voice, "So it is true, then."

"Max!" Really hearing and recognizing the voice for the first time, Michael jumped up and crossed to the cell wall where the linguist stood. To his credit, Max didn't move away like all the others; he simply looked up slowly, his eyes bloodshot, and his whole demeanor shouting weariness. "Are you OK? You don't look well."

Max stifled a quick smile, amused and touched that despite being the one behind lock and key, Michael's first reaction was for his well-being. His smile faded quickly, remembering the facts of the situation. "I've been better," he answered honestly. "I've just spent several hours being debriefed about what sensitive information I may have provided to you."

"Because they're more worried about your betraying them, than all of what they did to me," raged Michael icily, before remembering who was standing there. He honestly reassured, "You didn't tell me anything, except honest feedback and good questions about my situation. You played your part well."

Hearing the hurt in Michael's voice, Max suddenly felt the need to absolve himself of what they, the Expedition -the other humans had done. He blurted the case for his innocence, "I had no idea what they did to you, who you were. I was new to the city, and our interaction was apparently not anticipated." He dropped his eyes, realizing and nearly admitting the extent of his feelings on the issue, "Besides do you think I would have knowingly…"

Stepping closer to the cell walls, Michael offered his own defense and reassurance, "Whatever else, I acted honestly with you, Max. I was happiest when we were together because you seemed to the most honest with me. I wished you were around when you weren't. When we touched…"

Max clutched his chest and stepped back, revolted, "That could easily have been hunger! Heightmeyer is suggesting that any attraction you felt for me, or anyone else, was simply a manifestation of your urge to feed; any connection, just an unconscious hive social instinct." He didn't name the red hair-equals-authority figure connection she had also hypothesized.

Michael tensed, aware of and increasingly bothered by the barrier between them, physical and felt. "I'm not saying that's not the case; I don't know. But I do know that in the midst of everything else, I genuinely…"

Max rationalized, "You didn't have anything else, Michael. It wasn't me; it was something, _anything _that was familiar, comfortable and consistent. That crutch just happened to be me."

The prisoner threw his hands up and paced away, no longer minding his volume. "I don't know; you can ask your doctor about the inner meanings of it all, remembering her theories are for humans, which I am not. And let's not forget that critical detail: I am Wraith."

"And that's what I'm left with, Michael –or whatever your name is. I'm stuck now, wanting to protect my people from being fed on by yours; and may not have thought twice about this experiment but for imagining what pain it's caused you. Because I have gotten to know you, to like you. But even before the Wraith bit, I should have seen this ending badly."

Michael stepped back to the wall and lowered his voice again, "It doesn't have to end badly, Max. Get me out of here? I didn't mean to hurt anyone; I don't want to. I just want to get away from what they're doing to me."

"And I don't condone what they did. I just informed Weir and Sheppard that I'm reporting this, and threatened to resign. But they _have_ done it, and that's what we have to deal with…"

"We? We! _YOU _are not the one standing in a cage, with what little you know turning out to be make believe, with everyone else making the decisions for you. Your fate is not up to some self-appointed, self-interested committee. You have nothing to 'deal' with; so don't feel too badly for yourself."

Though he could identify with others restricting some life options for him, he said only and honestly, "I am concerned for you, Michael. For a friend, for someone I care about."

"That person isn't real! He was created by others for their benefit… The man you care so much about isn't even a man. He never existed; he wasn't real."

"He was to me."

The sharp anger on the prisoner's face evaporated, as he tried to understand, appreciate and reciprocate the honest and likely unpopular connection this human felt with him. "It's a pity your leaders don't share your capacity for actual compassion; and it's unfortunate that your concern is wasted on a fiction."

A heavier cloud of sadness settled over Max; but he didn't move or look away. He didn't seem able or willing to leave.

Even in his anger, Michael could sense that Max was struggling with a mix of thoughts and emotions; and he empathized with them: He remembered his own terror of the Wraith—before discovering he was one; and he still felt the connection to the man before him, not wanting the horrific new facts to change that. If Max felt anything similar, he wouldn't easily endanger the City by helping Michael escape, nor would he just leave Michael to rot in a cell. More likely, Max would agonize in his dilemma, suffering himself and serving no one any good until the leaders had their way regardless. And Michael couldn't let that happen to his friend; he wouldn't.

So, he took a deep breath and helped Max make his decision. "Has it occurred to you that I might be the prisoner taken when your Major Lorne was injured? And for all we know, that I caused his injuries?"

Max's eyes grew large at the possibility he had not considered.

"I killed a man this afternoon," Michael pressed. "I didn't mean to; but some part of me was _so_ satisfied by it. My treatment began about the time your friend was injured; and given what I felt today, I can only imagine what pleasure I would have taken in hurting him when fully Wraith."

Max's face hardened in instinctive protectiveness, even speculative.

But Michael had to be sure. He grinned, adding, "With all the doubt, frustration and impotence of the past few days, I would choose the clarity and control of that moment any day. I would relish it." He stepped up to the edge of the cell, "And why shouldn't I, given what you've done to me? You owe me! Weir, Sheppard, Evan… Angor Wat. Nephews!" He slammed both hands against the walls, the sound and lights of the forcefield emphasizing the ferocity of his threats.

The two guards took instant aim at Michael; but he didn't take his hungry eyes off Royce who glared back at him with a matching rage.

"You want so much to hate us all for what they few did? Fine, perhaps you are more Wraith than right." Royce took a small, plastic dish from his vest pocket, and opened. "I tried, 'Michael.' But I guess you won't be needing these." He dumped a handful of potato nuggets onto the floor, turned on his heels and stalked from the room.

The guards slowly relaxed when the prisoner just stood looking after him.

Michael looked down and saw the discarded gift sitting just beyond reach. Turning back to his solitary fate, he ran his hands over his face, and exhaled the tension as his decision settled around him. "I'm sorry, Max." _And I will never speak of our dance again._

* * *

**NOTE**

1. This "symbiote substitute," created by the Pangarans, was introduced in _Cure_ (SG1 6.10).

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_FYI, there may be a bit of a break before the next chapter is posted, as its storyline step is proving challenging to work through toward some later, complete chapters. As you know, reviews and suggestions/questions are always helpful to prompt that muse...! Story alerts will best let you know when it's posted._


	13. Day Twentyone

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

_AN: Apologies for the long delay in continuing this story. I've finally broken through a writer's block on these next two chapters, and hope to get the rest of our tale up in relatively short order. Thanks for the reviews and follows; keep 'em coming!_

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-ONE**

In the Dining Hall, Royce kept picking at his meal and smiling mechanically at the steady dinnertime stream of soldiers and scientists who came over to welcome Lorne back to the land of the living.

"We told you he'd be back to avenge his poker losses, Max."

An emphatic poke to the redhead's shoulder.

"Good to see you up and about, Major!"

An excited pat on the soldier's back.

"Tucker here was pretty scared for you, sir."

"No, I was just afraid they'd make you team leader, Levine!"

A vigorous shake of his unslung hand.

"You missed some pretty big Wraith excitement, and word is there's likely more to come…"

A doting ruffle of his freshly trimmed hair.

"Major! The boys told me you were here… I'm going to make your favorite to celebrate: a nice chicken curry."

Eventually in the line of well-wishers, a slightly bleary-eyed Jennifer Keller approached, with a tray of more breakfast-y foods. "Hi Max, Major; mind if I join you?"

"Good evening, Doc," smiled Lorne, motioning to the seat next to Royce. "You're up a little early today, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I got called in. When Carson got back from off-world this afternoon, Dr Brightman ordered him to take a couple of days to catch up on sleep.(1) We're all taking a few extra hours to cover."

"I really don't see how he's able to sleep at all after—" growled Royce, half under his breath.

"Max!" Evan snapped quietly in his superior officer voice, followed by a stern and embarrassed look that conveyed both 'unfair' and 'not cool.'

Max glanced around for who else might have heard his outburst, and then at Keller. "Sorry," he mumbled, with more obligation than sincerity.

Keller nodded and glanced back and forth between the two men, eyes a little wide and not sure whether or what to say next. So, she just began to eat her breakfast.

"I'm going for a run," announced Royce tersely, standing and snatching up his untouched tray. "Later."

"Max?" began Keller apologetically, as he stormed away without another word or look.

"Let him go," encouraged Lorne, his eyes following Royce with a mix of irritation and concern. "It's not you."

"It's been a rough while for everyone, I know; but I didn't realize he could be such an anger ball," she confided, a little surprised. "He's always so friendly."

"Life of the party he can be…" Lorne agreed.

"And the temper?"

"Also legendary..." He recalled the affectionate risk he'd taken when once presenting Max a t-shirt suggestion after a particularly stormy row: Temper Fugit.(2) Pursed lips melted into a half-hearted grin, as Lorne instead reassured the concerned physician, "Short term, running off some of the anger will be good for him."

"And how are you doing, Major?" Keller shifted the focus to the continuing company. "I'm guessing Beckett or Brightman released you since last night?"

"Max helped me get settled back into my quarters, and then made sure I started my recovery regimen." The patient-become-soldier nodded to his bowl of simple soup and cup of smoothie, "Progressively solid diet, daily PT and restricted duty for the next week or so."

"Just make sure you stick to that wise advice," chided Keller with a knowing smile. "You'll actually bounce back faster if you ease it along…" Her colleagues had warned how these military types always pushed their recovery too quickly.

"I hear you; I just don't know if the Wraith are going to give us the luxury of a gradual recovery."

Keller swallowed with more than a little nervousness, "Do you really think they'll come after us immediately?"

"Well, the hive that found Michael has one pissed off Wraith who knows we're still here; and regardless of what influence he might have or how long he lasted, if I were that queen, I'd be all over news that the City of the Ancients was still around. They could be on their way right now, or just spreading the word and gathering reinforcements."

Wide-eyed, the doctor held a spoonful halfway between the bowl and her mouth, as all of the not good possibilities sank in.

"In the meanwhile, I'm just glad to be off my back and backside," Lorne changed the subject to a less distressing topic. "I know I wasn't awake for most of it; but I can really tell that I was laid out for weeks," adding a stretch and wince for good effect. "Speaking of which," he continued, "I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me while I was laid up. With everything else that's apparently been going on, I appreciate the good care and attention."

Keller smiled modestly and stirred her oatmeal, "Dr Beckett and the A- and B-shifts really did all the treatment, Major. By the time I came on duty your first night, it was really just monitoring. In fact, most of your stay I just watched your vitals, changed your sheets and got to hang out with Max."

"He 'hung out' in the Infirmary?" surprised Lorne, touched and little nervous about just how notable that attention had been.

"You were actually pretty popular," she teased honestly. "Max tended to spend the most time on C-shift, when there weren't as many other people around; but Dr Weir, Colonel Sheppard and his team, your team—lots of folks stopped by all day long to check on you. Dr Parrish kept trying to bring flowering plants in 'til Carson pointed out the whole pollen and fragrance dangers in a medical space."

"I'll have to thank him for the effort; I'm afraid I don't remember any of it."

"You were unconscious," Keller reminded him. "Patients in that state tend to recall just vague impressions, if anything—general presences, music…"

On her explanation, Lorne realized he did have some sense of songs and… the scent of zesty tomato sauce. Perhaps he hadn't just dreamed them after all?

Seeing his attention slip away, Keller deduced, "Max talked to you in a lot of languages, sang a few songs and pushed the fragrance prohibition pretty far—luckily garlic bread is a little safer than blooming plants. He was pretty determined to keep you engaged." She smiled at him, somewhat expectantly it seemed.

He looked at her like he was about to make some additional comment, but instead, just nodded, smiled and asked simply, "And how are you enjoying Atlantis?"

Keller noted the redirection, and obliged it for the moment. "Let's just say that when I'd imagined my medical practice and research career, I didn't think the high rise buildings involved would be floating on an alien ocean." She looked out admiringly at the slowly shifting light patterns of dusk, a time of day she hadn't seen since her first couple of days after arriving. "For a strange new world, it certainly is beautiful..."

"Location, location, location," laughed Lorne.

"I don't know that I'm ready to buy quite yet," Keller admitted, with an amused stir of her bowl. "Have you ever actually gotten used to the idea of being… not on Earth?"

"You mean, Do I ever forget that I'm hiking on alien planets, meeting and fighting extra-terrestrials and flying around in spaceships? Almost. But the beaming, and the ray guns, and the strange diseases… There are definitely days when you can't forget we're not in Kansas anymore."

Keller watched his general reflection on Pegasus Galaxy life shift with his glance, to the direction in which Max had skulked, as he thought aloud, "For all its wonders, Atlantis doesn't have all the comforts of home…"

"Must be nice to have someone from back home here with you now," she suggested, catching Lorne's eye as he turned back to her.

He pursed his lips, and nodded noncommittally. _What was she getting at? _he wondered, as she clearly seemed to mean something more, seemed to have some insight beyond the obvious nicety. _What had Max told her? What had they talked about?_

Oblivious to or confident in his questions, Keller continued to look at him with a genuine, knowing gaze, before taking a deep breath and gathering her things. "I should get to the office…" She waved him back down as he started to stand, "Big points for good manners, Major; but no need to be so formal. If we're going to be friends, I won't salute if you don't…"

With another warm smile and friendly wink, she left him alone with the distinct impression that he had a new, if not confirmed, confidant in this new place. _And if so, that's good; isn't_ _it?_

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-TWO**

"Behind the piles!" answered Lorne from his file-covered desk as the Colonel entered his office the next afternoon. Seeing his guest, he started to stand stiffly, "Sir?"

"At ease, Major," Sheppard waved him back into his seat. "I don't want to pull you out 'the zone.'"

"Very generous of you, sir," half-grinned Lorne, looking over the weeks of reports and requisitions Sheppard has thoughtfully saved for him.

"That's just the big-hearted sort of guy I am," he admitted with a little mock humility, picking up and flipping through the topmost pad.

"I'm guessing you haven't come to retrieve any of these, then?"

"Giver," Sheppard reminded, pointing at himself. "Not a taker."

Lorne grinned and offered the still empty guest chair. "The docs told me to take it easy, between rest and rehab; but I've started catching up on the AARs I missed—context for the decisions and documentation I've got before me now."

"Having it all done by tomorrow morning will be fine," joked Sheppard, adding the file back to its stack, and sitting on the edge of the seat. "How are _you_ doing?"

"A little sore, a little low energy, and a little annoyed when I forget I've got only one really good arm right now." He wiggled the fingers on his sling-bound hand. "But I'm ready to do what we need, especially if our goth ghouls show up."

Sheppard grinned at the familiar, and expected, "can do" attitude from his second in command. He appreciated the spirit, and hoped it wouldn't be put to the test, for all their sakes. "Good to hear it." His smile drooped as he admitted, "But I actually need to chat about another, more immediate issue."

Clear on the shift in tone and topic, Lorne nodded and closed the file he had been reading.

"I'll get right to it, Evan; it's Max Royce."

Lorne was not entirely caught off guard by the subject matter, but wasn't exactly thrilled to be discussing it with his superior.

"You were at this morning's team leader briefing, so you know the basics of what's gone on over the past few days and where we stand now."

Lorne nodded, still amazed at the turn of events since his injury, even more at those since he woke. The implications of the Wraith prisoner's escape were both a large blow to the professional pride of the military personnel, as well as a clear threat to everyone in the City. As such, the topic had constantly been in conversation across the Expedition since Lorne's release and partial return to duty.

"So with no word on Michael or larger Wraith reactions," Sheppard explained, "we need to keep our focus on relocating the Alpha Site and preparing here. And in the midst of that priority, Royce has made his displeasure with the retrovirus operation very clear, along with his downwardly revised opinion of Weir, Beckett and me. I don't really care for my sake, but other personnel are talking about his change in tone."

Even without having witnessed it firsthand, Lorne could have predicted the icy turn in Royce's demeanor. "Has he actually done…?" he asked, hoping that wasn't the case, for various reasons.

"He's threatened to resign and to file a formal complaint with the IOA; but he hasn't done anything, at least not yet. But he's well-known and well-liked, and for a lot of very good reasons. So I'm concerned that, even if he doesn't actually say or do anything specific, others will start taking cues from him, get distracted. And, as his attitude doesn't seem to be improving any…"

Lorne nodded, knowing better than most how the normally flashpoint temper was uncharacteristically holding its standing boil for two days and counting. The resignation threat was even more unexpected, as Max usually dug his heels in when faced with conflict. This whole situation obviously was affecting Max greatly, and others were watching. And this kind of attention is not what Max wanted, even if he intended to make his disagreement known.

"Evan," Sheppard continued, seeing the concerned understanding in his executive officer's eyes, "he's got a right to his opinion; and I can see why he could feel the way he does. But what's done is done, and we all need to be focused on preparing for the consequences, not holding grudges or pouting over how it all went down."

Lorne had a pretty good idea what Sheppard was getting around to asking or ordering him; but didn't want to assume or volunteer too much. As a leader in the Expedition, and even as a friend, he knew he needed to get involved with the disgruntled scientist; he just wasn't eager to mix his roles, and certainly didn't want to seem so. "I take it you've tried to speak with him?"

Sheppard nodded, "He won't give Elizabeth or me more than the time of day; Carson and Kate are hesitant to use medical pretenses to call him, especially as that's not likely to go over well. And Rodney-well, even Rodney knows that social soothing's not his strong suit. …Say that five times fast." He chuckled for them both, knowing it wasn't really a light moment. "So with all the formal channels exhausted, I wanted to check with you, as someone who's known him forever. What's it gonna take to get him past this?"

Lorne sat back in his seating, honestly wondering whether and what it would take to have Max move on. And equally important in this moment, what level of insight and influence he could safely share with his commanding officer. Regardless, he couldn't take too long to respond in some way… "Honestly, sir, I know he's angry; but didn't really realize how far he's taking it. What conversations we've had in the last couple of days have centered on my recovery; he probably didn't want to get into this until he knew I was really on the mends…, or just isn't ready to talk about it."

Sheppard nodded, himself having held off this conversation for some of the same reasons. But it really couldn't wait; the last thing any of them needed was a raging, renegade redhead when the Wraith could arrive at any moment. "He's a good guy, Major; which is just one more reason I'd like to get this all settled…"

The Colonel was obviously not planning or prepared to make the instruction explicit, for whatever reason. But in just a few months serving under him, Lorne knew what the expectation was, what he needed to do.

"Sir, I don't want to speak for him; but I don't think this is the beginning of Wraith Rights movement, or in-house rebellion or anything."

Sheppard looked only slightly less concerned; he definitely needed more. So, "I'll talk to him. Tonight," Lorne promised, not needing to say that he couldn't, and shouldn't, make any promises beyond that.

A more relaxed body language indicated Sheppard had gotten what he'd come for. He nodded his appreciation for Lorne's insight and commitment, before standing, "Lemme know how it goes. Now get some sleep, Major. Relapse will not be a sufficient excuse to get you out of mission critical work any longer." Sheppard smiled, glanced at the piles of logs and reports, and whistled his way quickly out of the crowded room.

Evan slumped back in his chair behind the piles and let out a long sigh. For all his long years of connection with Max, this was not going to be an easy conversation. He needed to approach it just right…

* * *

"Go away!" Max shouted toward the chiming door late that night, dropping his running shoes onto the floor as he dropped his sweaty and exhausted self onto the bed.

Despite the instruction, the door opened less than a minute later; and Max sat up to see a cheery Evan step in, carefully balancing a covered dining hall tray with his good and slingbound arms.

"Room service!"

"What the…! How…?" Max stammered through his surprised objection to the intrusion.

"I happen to know a few things about security overrides on base doors; remember?" explained Evan, as he came right in, smiling as though breaking and entering was the most normal of pastimes.

"Evan, I—" began the protest.

"Haven't eaten in who knows how long, despite running the equivalent of several marathons around the City in at least the last two days."

"Exercise is good for you; and now you're tracking my dining habits?" Max rationalized with increasingly less energy.

"Overexertion is not; and yes," panned Evan as he set down the tray, stepped in front Max, and pulled him upright. "Now, hit the shower, stinky; that's an order." He pulled off Max's glasses and turned him toward the bathroom with a quick swat to the backside.

Max's first instinct was to hold his ground against the intrusion and instructions, however well meant; but the look on Evan's face was a vicious combination of plea and demand. Deciding that, since he'd planned on showering anyway, complying wasn't really a surrender here, and was likely easier than arguing. For the moment.

As his runner grudgingly but wearily complied, Evan looked about the uncharacteristically untidy room, reflecting the obviously out-of-kilter mood of its assigned occupant. The mess reminded him of his own pre-Academy bedroom back home, before a friendly Army doctor's son, and numerous screaming upperclassmen, had cured him of that unsightly habit. Hoping the shower might loosen the tongue as well as the running muscles of his housekeeping tutor, Evan gathered up all the clothes and the handful of energy bar wrappers strewn around the room, stacked up the scattered books, tossed up the bed covers and opened the dresser in search of a clean set of casual clothes. He smiled on seeing and selecting the "My Uni is older than Yoda" t-shirt he'd bought for Max nearly a decade before...

* * *

_Early November Thursday, 1997_

"_Master Royce!" the voice called warmly, as the young man passed into the Magdalen College grounds from High Street.(3)_

"_Good afternoon, Shanks," he smiled back to the porter, as the older man approached the counter._

"_You've 'ad a caller, sir," the man said as he shuffled through a clipboard of papers. "Polite chap; a little groggy, if I may say. A Yank by the sound of 'im. I wasn't sure when you'd be along…" He handed Max a folded slip of paper, addressed in a familiar script. "So, I sent 'im to Parmenter's for a bite until you returned."(4)_

_Max nodded gratefully and smiled as he read the note's simple content: "Surprise! –V"_

"_A mate from 'ome, sir?" inquired the greeter-gatekeeper._

"_Best mate, Shanks," he grinned, while also wondering what had brought the mid-term visitor, and for how long. Pulling some coins from his pocket, he counted out a few and some extra onto the counter. "On the off-chance he's expecting to impose, could I trouble you to gather a spare set of linens? I'd wait and bother Mr Graham this evening once I was sure; but he's been rather cross since Swindon's win at the Manor Ground…"(5)_

"_That 'e 'as, lad," agreed the porter, as he returned the clipboard to its nail, and dropped most of the coins into a well-worn drawer under the counter. "I'll 'ave them 'ere, or leave them in your room as I go, just in case. And don't you forget, the missus expects you for tea some evening soon."_

_Reshouldering his satchel, Max headed toward the street door, calling back, "Ta, Shanks! She knows I wouldn't miss her crumble for the world!"_

* * *

_A fresh cup of coffee settled on the table in front of Lorne, as he flipped through the South East England travel guide for the umpteenth time._

_"You look like you could use a refill, sir. May I get you anything else?" asked the accented voice through the low background noise of the busy delicatessen._

_"No, thank you," Evan said automatically. "I think I'm good," he continued with a tired, grateful smile as he looked up at the server._

"_You are such an American," sighed the ginger-headed and suddenly accent-less man standing over him. "Scripted pleasantries, and oblivious to the fact that there is no table service in the place…"_

"_Prime!" Evan shouted as he jumped up, instantly aware that all the other customers and the actual staff turned toward his outburst._

"_Surprise to you too, Vee," Max modeled a softer, but still heartfelt delivery, as they shared a quick hug. He sat down across the little table, hoping to lead the pair back into obscurity in the little shop._

_For a moment, they just grinned at one another, each happy for the pleasant surprise of his favorite company:_

_Max was yet again letting his beard grow out; Evan's head was recently shorn for his new assignment—he'd need a cap for these Oxfordshire nights. _

_Max was wearing new, smaller-lensed glasses, which only helped his dark eyes stand out all the more against his pale, auburn-framed face. It had only been a couple of months since they'd seen each other for a long weekend before Max's return for fall term; but Evan was sure his pallor had happily adjusted to this homeland, along with his chameleonic accent._

_For his part, Evan looked weary, but excited, and didn't yet have the slightly gaunt look he always developed as he began each new posting, devoting more energy and attention to work than to self-care. Max was sure that would change again as he threw himself into the new, international assignment; but for now his eyes twinkled with the infectious, inviting energy noticed by everyone who met him._

_Evan realized first that they were just staring at one another. He blushed a little, looked down at the mugs, but continued to smile more than a hot drink usually prompted. "Thanks for the coffee; feels good against the jet lag."_

"_I guess I've never gotten out of the habit of serving you breakfast foods," laughed Max at the nostalgic role, before posing a more contemporary observation. "I didn't think you were expecting any gap time between stations."_

_"I managed to get all my transition work done early, and to catch a standby flight; I didn't really have a way to get you a message on such short notice, so I just came over. I don't have to report at Aviano until Tuesday morning.(6)" His grin and voice softened a little, becoming more plaintive than excited. "I was hoping… we could spend the few days together. I know you're busy with school stuff…"_

_"I have to finish an essay for tutorial tomorrow, and had planned to spend the weekend on review for my certification exam; so if you don't mind a few hours of solo sight-seeing… With any luck, the rain'll let up a little, and you can enjoy a slightly less damp self-guided tour." Max gestured from the overcast afternoon outside, back to Evan's stack of a visitors' guide, train timetable and sketchbook._

_"Too touristy?"_

_"You're not wearing Jams(7) or dangling a gigantic camera like some gawkers; so we'll let it slide this once," smiled Max before indicating the large bag occupying the other seat at the small table. "But it's the big honking duffle that really gives you away… Let's drop your gear and let you freshen up. I'll show you around a little; we can grab a late dinner and then let you crash."_

_Knowing the best advice for eastward international travel was to remain awake for as much of the arrival day as possible, Evan nodded and chugged the last of his coffee._

_Max chuckled as the new arrival left a few coins on the table, unnecessarily. _Ever the American gentleman,_ he appreciated as he waved to the well-known deli staff, and directed his hopeless American back down High Street._

* * *

_Having made proper introductions with the College porter and claimed the short stack of bedding from him, the pair crossed a centuries-old courtyard and entered an aged square of open corridors beyond._

_As they walked, Evan couldn't help but be distracted by the picturesque architecture surrounding them. "I still can't believe you live here; it's like something out of a fairy tale or movie…" He poked his head out an ornate, paneless window to get a better look at the still-visible crosshatch pattern in the cloister lawn._

_Max smiled at the wonder his friend exuded. "Well, I don't actually live in these buildings," he nodded to the three-story stone dormitories around the yard. "These are mostly undergraduate staircases. My room is a little farther on…"_

_They passed out of the church-like façade, turned toward and crossed a small footbridge, and continued up a wooded path. Max had to slow his pace, remembering with a smile how the painter would be absorbing every detail of the autumn-clad park. "Are you this easily distracted in the cockpit, Lieutenant?" he finally asked. "You're going to have trouble flying in Europe if you're always gawking at the medieval landscapes."_

_Eyes ablaze despite the afternoon gloom, Evan explained without looking away from the visual feast. "When I'm flying, it's the same attention to detail, but with a different type of appreciation—noting landmarks to target, sizing up likely enemy vantage points and potential emergency landing sites… Here I just get to relish it!"_

_Max was happy to relish his relishing of Addison's Walk.(8)_

_Following the path along the slow water, they approached a three-story, vine-covered manor house, part of which was actually built over sluice gates across the narrow stream._

_"This is where you live?" Evan had stopped in his tracks on seeing the artfully tree-framed scene._

_"Welcome to Holywell Ford, flyboy.(9) Most grads don't get to stay more than a year; but I've made nice with the Home Bursar, and have managed to hold my room each year. I'll actually hate to leave next summer…"_

_Evan slowed even more as he slowly spun on the home's front terrace, taking in the historical documentary slash painting brought to life. With a little coaxing and pulling, Max finally got him inside and to his coveted single room, pointing out that its large windows looked out on the same view._

_Setting down his own satchel, Max followed Evan to the windows and their patio, river and gardens vista. "Once you've showered, how about we get you some supplies, and you capture some of this on canvas?"_

_Without breaking his gaze, Evan stepped behind Max, slipped his arms around his waist and sighed, "I would never get any school work done here; stimulus overload."_

_"British windows are two-way, just like in the States, Vee," Max warned, attempting to wriggle free, but succeeding only in pulling them both away from the public viewing. "Besides, you did fine at the Academy; and it has some spectacular mountain views…"_

_Entangled and half-laughing, they staggered back into the room, Evan attempting, in vain as always, to tickle his un-sensitive host. Reaching the desk, he noticed an opened airmail envelope and crumpled, handwritten letter lying noticeably there in the otherwise very tidy room. He relaxed his bear-hug grip on Max, who sensed his change in attention and realized what he'd seen._

_"Your dad?" guessed Evan._

_"Yeah," confirmed Max, all the levity of the previous moments evaporating instantly._

_"More of the same?" Evan could feel that Max actually seemed to grow smaller in his grip, at the mere mention of the parental critique._

_"An ultimatum: therapy or disowned." His head, tone and spirits had all dropped simultaneously._

_Not sure how his own family would react, or how he would handle it in any case, Evan could only offer some mix of consolation and encouragement, with a proportionately tighter embrace. "I'm sorry…"_

_Max shrugged and looked him in the eye with a confidence that was more desired than felt. "His loss. And I'll not let him ruin this weekend," he said, forcing a smile and change of tone. "So, let's get you showered and settled in, before I work on my essay and you can crash."_

_Evan let him slip away, and watched him gather a spare towel, washcloth and blanket from the wardrobe. While his presence this weekend was exactly the type of rendezvous that Colonel Douglas Royce, MD, so vehemently objected to, he decided it was good to be here for Max. His own Uncle Sam held the same opinion, but had not yet, and hopefully wouldn't, put the same dilemma before him. So for the time being, and for the weekend in person, they'd just enjoy their unpopular bond for its mutual support._

* * *

_Evan's eye snapped open to the pitch black of an unfamiliar place. Not the officers' quarters... Not the commercial flight… He quickly reminded himself that the unfamiliar sounds, smell and feel of this space were the centuries' old manor house in Oxford, England where he was visiting._

_He last remembered coming back to Max's room from the walking tour and pub dinner with his art store purchases. He'd sat down on the bed; Max had offered to make some tea after kidding him for seeming so sleepy at only 8pm local time, and then… Apparently, the jest hadn't been too far off the mark, as he remembered nothing beyond that; sleep must have come quickly, with or without the caffeinated beverage. _

_Checking his watch, he saw that it was now just past four in the morning local. He wondered when the sun would be up on this side of the pond, and what time Max would be up for his morning run._

_Wait... Where's Max? Though his shoes had been removed, Evan realized he was otherwise fully dressed and alone in the only bed in the room, and recalled that there were no guest quarters in the College._

_Remembering the large windows at one end of the room, he saw they offered no light—either well-draped or lacking any exterior light to let in. His adjusting eyes were drawn instead to a narrow ribbon of light coming in opposite the windows, under the door from the hallway. Mixing memory and vague shapes, he gradually discerned the radiator under the window, the sink, desk, the leaning guitar, bookshelf, and wardrobe around the opposite walls, and a narrow lump along the floor in the center of the room._

_Sliding out from under the simple duvet, he shuddered at the chill of the old house, and took a careful step toward the decidedly un-furniture centerpiece. "Max?" he whispered once he could hear quiet breathing, to no response._

_Gently reaching out, he felt a tense shoulder, and quickly confirmed that his host was balled up under the few extra blankets. "Max," he sighed, not surprised by this selfless hospitality, distressed at seeing the discomfort his host suffered on his behalf, and a little hurt at the prudish distance Max had clearly put between them._

_Focusing on the consequences of and not the intention behind the decision, Evan pulled the comforter from the bed and draped it over the shivering form. Gently, he untucked one edge of Max's nest, and slid in beside him, throwing a leg over and wrapping his arms around the sweatered sleeper. As Max slowly warmed and molded against him, Evan chuckled at and relished the familiar presence. Visions of painting the afternoon's woods and stonework filling his groggy head, he let himself drift happily back to sleep._

* * *

**NOTES**

1. An SGC physician first seen in 2004's _Lockdown_ (SG1 8.3), and who will still be connected to the program through at least 2010, when she is called upon to assist with surgery aboard the _Destiny_ in _Divided_ (SGU 1.12).

2. Play on "tempus fugit" = "time flies."

3. MAP: Magdalen College is one of the most picturesque of the constituent colleges of Oxford University in the United Kingdom. The main entrance, the Porter's Lodge, is located at the intersection of High Street and the River Cherwell.

4. MAP: Once located at 58 High St, just down from Magdalen College's main gate, Parmenter's Deli was an actual sandwich shop that has unfortunately closed since the time of this scene.

5. At the time of this scene, Oxford United Football (soccer) Club played at the Manor Ground stadium. While it has since been demolished in favor of a new facility, Swindon Town remains Oxford's arch-rival. This particular match is semi-fictional, as the actual loss came at Swindon and on 6 December 1997.

6. MAP: Aviano Air Base is a US Air Force base a little more than an hour outside Venice, Italy.

7. Brightly patterned (Hawaiian shirt-esque) long shorts, fashionable with boys in the US in the late 1980s.

8. For a map of the College grounds, follow from their home page - The College - Looking Around - Maps

9. There are some beautiful photos of this converted student housing online; several former residents have galleries on Flickr, for example.


	14. Day Twentyone continued

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

_

* * *

_

(continued) Early November Saturday, 1997

"_You've got a fine group of friends here, Prime," admired Evan, throwing his arm over the other man's shoulder as they took leave of the pub crawling cohort late Saturday night._

_Max shrugged off the connecting gesture, shoving his hands unnecessarily into his jacket as he headed down the lightly populated downtown street._

_"Chill, Max," crooned Evan in a relatively bad British accent. "If anyone sees, we're just two mates on our way in after a night out on the town…"_

_"Is that all we are, just 'mates'?" Max accused as he continued to focus on the well-known path home._

_"What?" smarted Evan slightly, realizing something larger than public perception was afoot. "Someone's upset."_

_"All hail, king of the obvious."_

_Considering possible sources for the foul mood, Evan reviewed the day's events: from waking up together—in the bed this time, to a morning run through the history-come-alive town, from a walking tour of the coordinate colleges ending in a picnic lunch in the Botanic Gardens, through an afternoon of individual study and sketch time, to dinner and pub trivia with Max's temple friends. The day had been gloriously sunny, and Max had seemed to be enjoying himself too, right up until… Oh... "Max, are you jealous?" grinned Evan, amused and even slightly pleased at the possibility._

_"Should I be?" he was accused._

_"I danced a couple of dances with her. I bought her and everyone else a round."_

"_You were eating her chicken tikka."_

"_It was good curry; I only had a couple of bites, but she kept pushing it on me. Have your sharp eyes happened to notice that that's the only non-vegetarian thing I've had since I got here?"_

"_I've never asked you to go meatless."_

"_You don't have to ask, Max. I did it because I wanted to for you, because I thought you'd be most comfortable being close to someone who didn't reek of poultry or… or mutton."_

_The man with the newly trimmed beard just kept walking, his hunched shoulders and fierce step suggesting his dismissive view of the thoughtful explanation._

_"What, would you prefer that I dance with you in front of all those people, Mister PDA-protectively-not-allowed? Besides, Sarah's a nice person, and nothing else happened."_

_"She's been all over you since services last night."_

_"Well you might have noticed that, apparently, I'm not a bad-looking guy; and as far as everyone here knows, I'm unattached." Evan nudged Max's shoulder as he kept pace. "That she thought I was available and might be interested shows that you and I aren't getting any unwanted attention. She didn't do anything wrong; and I don't think I did either. Nothing happened; so please don't be jealous of nothing."_

_Max brooded on the truth in Evan's description of the situation, as he keyed them into the Longwall Street gate to the College grounds._

_Seeing that no retort was coming, but no reprieve either, Evan deduced, "Angry over one pretty girl and a single chicken dish; and then there's your freezing on the floor my first night here. Are you gonna tell me what's really going on here?"_

_Max still refused to acknowledge or engage the invitation, but his moonlight-speckled facial expression made it clear he was still wrestling with something._

"_Max, stop," half-ordered Evan, finally stepping in front of the resolute red head. "If it's that obvious, just add stupidity to the list of charges against me and tell me, 'cause I'm not catching on by myself." He tried to make contact with the downcast dark eyes. "Please? I can't answer for it until I know the crime."_

"_Even if I don't have a reason to be jealous…," Max clenched his jaw and gazed at the manor lights up the drive from them, before committing to the quiet confession. "I'm not sure whether I have the _right_ to be."_

_Evan stared at him, completely surprised by the hesitant admission when he'd been expecting another strong accusation. Not really understanding, but not challenging, he finally was able to say, "I don't…"_

_Max cut him off, "I don't know whether I have any grounds for being that protective of your attention, Evan. I'm not sure what we are," and started walking again._

_"You want a label?" realized Evan, steering them off the too public driveway._

_With the topic broached, the doubts flowed out of Max faster than the stream they now approached. "I work with words for living; I happen to like names for things. Or at least descriptions, a common understanding. Are we a long distance couple? Friends with benefits? Or just mates who've shared a few beer-assisted snogs? And beyond the now, what should I be expecting for us in the future, beyond occasional weekend reunions?"_

_Evan considered the big questions he'd known they'd have to discuss at some point; he just hadn't expected it to be in a strange country, because of a flirty coed or in the chill of an early autumn morning. "Wow," he said simply, speaking to the sheer magnitude of the issues posed._

_Those questions hanging between them, they settled on a stone bench looking across the mill stream to the Water Meadow. The brisk night and tension had evaporated any alcohol-induced warmth and haze; because of and despite their chill, they sat close together in silence._

_Until Max further explained his worries. "I graduate next spring, and if this latest round of certifications goes well, I'll be well on my way to an appointment with the European Commission or UN; and that means, among other things, that our staying connected is going to get even harder. And while occasional weekend visits are wonderful, I guess I'd like to be something more than convenient for you…"_

_"Max, that is not how I feel about you, about us," corrected Evan immediately, a mix of anger and knowing hurt in his voice._

_"But it ends up being how I feel treated. I rearranged my entire academic schedule to be at your commissioning; I was on the first plane back when your dad died; and even this weekend, I've scaled back practicing for my interp orals because you suddenly got a few extra days' leave." He leaned into and looked at Evan to emphasize his last point. "I don't begrudge being with you, or being there for you, Vee; I don't. But sometimes it's easy to feel that presence, that effort is pretty one-sided…"_

_Evan didn't need anyone to specify the moments he hadn't been able to be there for Max; he carried that guilty list of his own accord: Max's honors graduation from Berkeley, his amicable but still difficult breakup from Andy as they each headed off to grad school on different continents, and more recently the complete freeze in relations with a father who had no affection for a gay son. And it wasn't likely to change; as much as he wanted to be back here the next June for Max's hooding, Evan didn't make promises he wasn't sure he could keep._

_"I know that's a function of your job, not you," Max forgave, guessing the self-recrimination Evan was likely pursuing. "But it still doesn't feel good, especially if we're something more than friends, now that I'll be heading into the work world after graduation. So I need a little more definition of what we are, a little more clarity about what expectations I should have here."_

_Evan knew it was a reasonable request, not just for Max, but for him too; as they each headed into a new professional chapter, it was smart and fair to consider how that change would affect them individually and together. And yet, Max seemed alternatively aloof to and now interested in their coupledom. From their conversations between his schoolwork, studying and temple obligations, he knew the practical interpreting exam coming up this week had Max a little nervous; but Evan was fully confident that he'd do fine—just last night he cantored the shabbat service in Hebrew while signing, in Hebrew or English, maybe both, for a Deaf member of the congregation. School itself seemed to be going well, as Max was on schedule to complete and defend his thesis, though Evan understood little of it beyond that it dealt with universal grammar across multiple historical eras. While all this undoubtedly produced stress, none was the sort of challenge that would normally create such acute anxiety in the steady Max. _

_So if it wasn't Max's current obligations, and it wasn't Evan himself, that left only one obvious, and considerable, source for the specific distress Max was speaking from now. Evan wove his hand into Max's coatpocket and stroked the chilly fist with his thumb. "Max, I am not your dad."_

"_Well, I appreciate your taking that… awkward… relationship label off the table," panned Max with wide eyes of exaggerated relief._

_"I'm serious," Evan refocused him with a firm squeeze on the hand. "I know that he spent most of your life attending more to the Army than to you and your mom, and that his recent behavior hasn't helped repair that history. So I understand you have every reason to be hesitant about another relationship with a soldier; you know those challenges so much better than I do… And not that our situation is any easier, but at least we can talk about it."_

_"But Uncle Sam is still the other man here," regretted Max, with his own affirming squeeze. "I trust you; but I know that he's there, he's demanding, and as far as he cares, I don't exist. Even if my father couldn't always put mom and me first, the Army at least acknowledged our existence, threw us some crumbs. But you and me, we're not even afterthoughts or ignored; we're actively outlawed."_

_"And so you're worried that Sarah, or the idea of her, is a better option for me, my career and my relationships; is that part of it?" Evan asked, turning toward Max on the bench._

_Almost embarrassed to admit that his fears included some doubt of Evan's feelings or commitment, Max swallowed, looked away and gave a small nod._

_Anguished that Max suffered the worry, that their situation made him so, Evan channeled the resulting anger into a clearly expressed resolve. He meant it, and Max needed to feel it conclusively. "I didn't have to make the effort to carve out this weekend; and if I just wanted… 'companionship,' I had lots of options right off-base or right back there at the pub. At the end of the day, literally, look who I chose." _

_He reached across and took Max's other hand, so that their connection was literally twice as strong. "I know there are easier, safer, maybe even smarter choices—for both of us. But my feelings for you aren't based on their convenience or mass popularity, any more than my career choice is. And I hate that my two passions don't play well together; I'm sorry for the complications that causes you especially. But I'm here with you, happy, grateful and committed, because you're good for me, and for some reason you seem to find me worth keeping around... You are _so_ worth a little risk and a lot of effort. I love you, Maximus Joshua Royce..." He smiled, "What is it the locals say? …Full stop."_

_He turned Max's face to him, and gave him a tender but confirming kiss. They lingered a moment, connected by cool skin and warm feelings, until Evan felt a chuckling change in Max. "What?"_

_Max shifted back just enough to take in all of Evan's face with a contented adoration. "I'm just reminded of why I fell for you that first weekend at Kirby…"_

_Evan was caught off guard by the nostalgic comment. "You… The first weekend?" He shook his head in disbelief._

_"I remember pedaling up to the carpool rendezvous for that trip. And across this small crowd of largely unfamiliar people, I heard this laugh and saw these bright, smiling eyes..." Max's cheeks blushed at the memory, "Let's just say I was not at all displeased to find out you were the other odd man out, even though I was spoken for and you were not likely interested._

_"And every additional detail I've learned and each extra moment I got to spend with you, was just that much more to appreciate: Your laugh is just a symptom of your good-natured humor at everything. These deep eyes make everyone feel recognized and welcome; and I can't explain the… giddy calm I feel when they look at me like they are now. You have such a heart—big, loyal, brave, selfless. You're curious, smart, creative… And package all that in a fighter jockey body, what's not to take my breath away?"_

_Evan squirmed uncomfortably at the playful cheek pinch and the flattering descriptions._

_"But most of all," Max's matter-of-fact tone returned, "and as much as I love languages, I… With you, I don't have to be eloquent or quick, or even accurate; I don't have to talk at all. You just 'get' me." He laced his fingers back into Evan's. "And I'm so glad I got you."_

_Humming a Sonny and Cher song of a similar title, Evan leaned in to rest his cheek against Max's.(1)_

_Catching the tune, and the playful tone it reflected, Max asked Evan's ear, "Are you suggesting that now is when we're supposed to break out in a beautifully choreographed song and dance number? That's Bollywood, not British, romance…"_

_"True. Would it be more setting-appropriate to just romantically freeze to death together in a lover's embrace…?" grinned Evan, but not so happy as to forget Max's concern. "And speaking of—back to your original question tonight: You're the language savant; what's the word for us? Dating? But we don't get to often. Boyfriends? Seems a little high school. Exclusive, monogamous? True, but clinical… What does that cute cranial compendium of yours suggest?"_

_As he thought about it, Max pulled off his cap and pulled it down over Evan's chilly ears. Finally, he shrugged, "I don't know of any one word that captures it all; maybe there's not one. So, I'm good with the commitment that we are together, a couple, even while we're apart." He looked expectantly at Evan._

_"OK, so for now it's enough that we're clear that we are a 'we,' and that we'll talk about any concerns or questions about that should they come up," Evan affirmed, confirming the understanding was mutual. "I now pronounce us… together."_

_"You may kiss the…?" intentionally stumbled Max, as Evan took him up on the offer._

_After a few breathless, huddled moments, Max pondered a less satisfying, but more subtle means of expressing their affection. "Even if we don't have a label, I'd still like some way to remind you that I love you, even if other people are around or listening."_

"_A code?" chuckled Evan._

"_I think that's quite fitting given our careers: military and linguistics…" smiled Max. "We could home school a right smart cryptologist."_

"_OK," agreed Evan, actually intrigued at the idea. "What's the most obscure language you know how to say 'I love you' in?"_

"_No, it can't be 'I love you'—that's not code," Max shouldered Evan for his lack of creativity. "We need something that stands in for 'I love you,' that we'd understand but others wouldn't."_

"_How about… 'pineapple'?"_

"_Do you really want to try to work 'pineapple' into correspondence or conversation on a regular basis? I thought not. Besides, it sounds more like an S&M safeword..." Max chuckled at the shocked expression on Evan's face._

"_No, but it gives us something to start with. Um, what's sign language for 'I love you'?"_

"_British or US?"_

"_They're different?"_

"_Short of maybe 'choking,' 'hungry' and 'I have to pee,' there's not a universal sign system, Evan."_

"_I didn't know," shrugged the non-linguist. "American, I guess."_

_Max demonstrated as he explained, "You combine the signs for I, L and Y; open palm forward, and your thumb, pointer and pinky fingers extended. I and Love and You… But how will that help us in writing or over the phone, or be coded, genius?"_

_Evan worked to mimic the gesture, chiding, "It's called brainstorming, Max; we're just generating ideas right now, not criticizing…" Max helped him shape his fingers into the correct ASL wordsign. "How do you make it say 'very much'? 'I love you very much'?"_

_"Usually you add emphasis with a facial expression, or repetition or by making the sign bigger, more dramatic." Max modeled his explanation by widening his eyes, puffing his cheeks briefly, and tapping his ILY softly against Evan's chest several times._

_Evan rested his own ILY hand over Max's heart, and tried not to laugh aloud, as he confessed, "That's both adorable and creepy…"_

_"Brainstorming!" reminded Max, giving him a quick kiss on the nose to offset the distraction and refocus on the underlying message. "I L Y very much too."_

_"There you go," brightened Evan. "Very plus ILY: 'verily'. We can work 'verily' into conversations pretty easily; and it reinforces its own message… It's perfect!" He was obviously very pleased with his vocabulary victory._

_"That's not exactly an everyday word…" fretted Max._

_"We're bright boys," reminded Evan. "And since the feeling isn't just an everyday affection, the word for it shouldn't be either." He tapped the ILY handsign against Max's chest, and let it come to rest there._

_Max conceded the poetry of the codeword with a nod, further appreciating how lucky he was to have found this pilot who somehow well-handled both heights and hearts._

_Evan shuddered and explained, "Speaking of rare feelings, I can't feel my toes. Any chance we can take our… manual alphabet lessons inside?" He wiggled his eyebrows and nodded in the direction of the house._

_Smiling in anticipation of at least another day, and two long nights, in loving company, Max smiled simply, "Verily."_

_Pulling Max to his feet, Evan gave him a quick swirl, adding a little starlight dance to their relation celebration. Grinning, laughing and arm-in-arm, the truly more than mates headed home._

* * *

"So do you want me in or out of the shirt?" grinned the clean, calmer and even a little coy red head, as he emerged from the bathroom to find Evan lost in thought over the Oxford t-shirt.

"I'm not picky," Evan smiled back, handing it over with a pair of sweats and a quick peck on the cheek. "But I am glad to see you a little more combobulated. Now let's get some food in you."

As Max donned the off-duty outfit, Evan led them back to the tray now sitting on the foot of the bed. Attempting to lather a piece of toast, he explained, "In talking Rose into holding off on my curry until I can actually eat it in a few more days, I was able to wrangle some peanut butter and fruit for you." Even stretching his bound arm more than he should, he struggled to coordinate the toast, knife and cup of peanut butter successfully.

Max sighed, sat down beside him and took over making the high-protein snack. "Thank you, but let me…"

With an increasingly less irritable Max now pre-occupied with self-care disguised as helpfulness, Evan launched into his ulterior intervention. "While you're wielding a knife, dare I ask what's been eating you these last couple of days?"

"A guy can't be a little less upbeat than usual, without something being late night snack delivery-worthy?" He handed over a deftly crafted slice of PB'd bread, having bought Evan virtually no distracted time.

"It's not the fact of the dour mood or exercise, Max; it's their excessive degree and the accompanying silence. I know you; when you're this angry, you only have two modes: assault and smolder. So while I'm glad I didn't find any bodies among the mess here, that leaves me clear that the object of your… displeasure is still at large and in danger."

"Or I've hidden the bodies well," Max offered nonchalantly as he sliced a second piece of toast.

Evan grinned at the macabre breakthrough. "So there is someone or someones on your list?"

Max grimaced at the inadvertent point he'd allowed.

Not giving him a chance to backpedal, Evan pushed, "So, who do you want to start with? Weir? Sheppard? McKay?"

"Rodney is in an uber-annoying class of his own, but that's no recent development; it's an encoded genetic trait. Besides, best I know, he's been so wrapped up with his SAWgate and Wraith scanner schematics that he wasn't involved in the whole…"

"'Michael' situation?" Evan completed when it seemed Max wouldn't make that admission.

Max looked up over his glasses, and stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth to prevent any further slips.

"Having achieved some success on the nutritional front, I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me what it is you're trying to run from, or over..." Equally promise and threat, Evan accompanied the statement with a peace offering piece of fruit. "So if not McKay, then Weir? Sheppard? You seemed to have a particularly raw reaction to Keller's mention of Dr Beckett yesterday…"

Max continued to thoroughly over-chew his snack.

"Alright, I'll guess," sighed Evan, lying back across the bed to suggest both that he wasn't putting any pressure on Max, and that he was ready to stay until he was satisfied. "Already stressed by my injuries and restrictions on how you could handle that, you find out that this new friend was really a Wraith. That Beckett-whom you'd apparently gotten on pretty well with—was conducting genetic experiments on a patient in his care. That Weir and Sheppard let that play out without your knowledge. And that when you told them all off over it, you got marched off to the base shrink, while your new friend, the Wraith, killed one of my men, kidnapped Teyla and escaped with news of our continued existence."

He had delivered the list matter-of-factly, no sarcasm or judgment. And Max had slowly nibbled away the slice of waxy fruit; but he'd said nothing.

"Does that about cover it?" confirmed Evan, placing a hand on Max's back when the list itself hadn't gotten any more reaction. "Max, I get that you're upset at what happened and at their involving you in it; I do. But Weir, the Colonel, Beckett—they're all good people; I wouldn't serve under them if they weren't. And they had some good reasons for doing what they did…" He tugged at the hem of Max's t-shirt.

Max lay back beside, but not quite against, Evan with a look of shock on his face. "You think they were right leaving me in the dark…?"

"…Good reasons for doing what they did to that Wraith. I am absolutely _not_ OK that they involved you, much less left you alone with him," Evan pulled Max toward him, protectively. "No offense to your ability to take of yourself... _And_ I also think it's a little hard for either of us to point fingers for not correcting inaccurate assumptions about identities and relationships."

Neither needed question or explain that potential hypocrisy; they lay there together on the bed as evidence enough.

Without admitting the point outright, Max moved to his other outstanding complaint. "But what about experimenting on prisoners? Are you really going to lie there and tell me that was justified?"

"War is hell," Evan began, taking Max's clenching hand.

"You're going to feed me movie clichés?" irked Max, pulling away.

"Trite but true, Prime," Evan persisted. He dropped his hand, picked at the sheet a little and seemed to drift away; not dreamily, but with an expression Max knew meant the thoughts were troubling.

Rather than asking, Max simply stretched his hand out toward its fidgeting partner. "Outloud…?"

At first, Evan didn't seem to notice; but slowly, his hand accepted the offer as he explained. "Not long after I got to Atlantis, Colonel Sheppard was injured; and I took a team to collect iratus bug source DNA to help generate his treatment. When the bugs reacted by attacking us, in order for us to get away, I... I had to grenade the nest. And I had to do it… with two of my men still inside.(2)

He took a deep breath. "I can tell myself that it was too late for them, that I put them out of their misery while protecting the rest of the team; but it was still my grenade, not the bugs that actually ended their lives. To this day, I wonder if there wasn't something more or different I could have done to prevent it, or to save Walker and Stevens... But it's the decision I made in the moment; it wasn't good, but it was right. And, there's no do-over."

"We've never really been able to talk about this stuff before," Max pointed out as he leaned in to show his non-judgment at what had been shared. "I'm sorry…"

"You don't have to be," Evan reassured them both. "You've always been amazing, even if you didn't know the details."

But Max could see the resolve and regret on Evan's face, and offered what condolence he could through a stroked hand and soothing words. "I'll bet you had no other option; it wasn't premeditated; and for exactly the reason that it bothers you so much, I know that you aren't making plans to do it again. That's where they're different…," he nodded in the direction of the Control Room.

"We all did what we had to do," interrupted Evan firmly but gently. "Horrible actions at the micro scale for the benefits to the larger cause. How many negotiations have you translated for, where the diplomats made relatively small but important concessions? Remember how pissed you were over the details of the deal in Sierra Leone? The child soldiers issue was downplayed in favor of the overall truce; was that success worth it?"

Max shuddered at remembering the atrocities that had been described through him, the horrors he had spoken aloud in his role simply to convey words across the makeshift conference table. How he wanted to reach over and wring the necks of the remorseless warlords who'd made ignoring those heinous crimes the price for wider peace. How he'd been sick that night over the acts he'd had to hear about and repeat with his own lips. How he'd washed his face and brushed his teeth feverishly, trying to erase the memory of his part in the cease fire that had largely held since, saving thousands from further harm.

Knowing where his mind had gone, Evan cupped Max's chin toward him and stroked his cheek, reminding him, "Those bad guys aren't here, Max; you and those negotiators did good, did what you had to for the larger good."

"I understand that diplomats, even good militaries, make and demand sacrifices, Vee," he admitted softly. "I don't like it, but I get it…"

"But?"

"What about physicians?" Max asked, with fire returning to his voice. "Where's the wiggle room in 'do no harm'?"

Growing impatient with the accusations and the wallowing, Evan cut to the heart of the matter. "Let's not forget that Beckett and his team saved my life recently, and I'm only the latest in a long string of people who wouldn't be around any more if it weren't for Carson. And even beyond that fact, he's no Mengele; and he is not your father."

Max sat up and away from Evan angrily, "Really? You're going to go there?"

"You're the one harboring the grudge against the doctor who wronged you, and pushed procedures to change someone into what they're not. It's not really that big a leap to see how this rings of your dad's behavior…" Evan could see the tension surge through Max at the repeated mention of the troubled father-son history.

He sat up beside Max, and tried to calm the waters he'd stirred. "I'm not trying to say that what happened here was good; but it was useful, maybe even necessary, for the greater good. You know the details here, what we're up against: The Wraith don't show mercy. I've seen whole villages wiped out—taken or fed on, to the last person. Even children. And trying to prevent that, sometimes it takes doing some not so nice stuff."

Seeing that Max wasn't arguing, even if he wasn't agreeing, Evan pushed his point home. "And if you're feeling bad for this particular Wraith, keep in mind that he was picked up during the near-extinction cull of the Meerim; and once here, he killed Sgt Cole, kidnapped Teyla and might have outed the City."

"I know," Max agreed quietly. He didn't need to add that Michael may have been the one who injured Evan in the first place; he'd even gloated about that possibility. Still…

Evan knew him well enough to see the exception he was still trying to make for this one Wraith. "There was something more about him, specifically, wasn't there?" Evan asked quietly, but confidently, even though he didn't want to hear the answer he expected might follow. "You can tell me," he reminded, running his hand through Max's still damp, tangled hair.

Max fidgeted, but reminded himself they'd long agreed not to keep secrets between them. "The man they made, Michael—he was so like in you so many ways. And in the midst of everything else I needed—I wanted that connection."

_What the—_Evan thought, epically not liking any possible playing out of Max's implication. Instead he took a breath and asked, "You told him about us?"

"No; of course not."

"Something else, then?" _Oh, god…_

Max gave a long sigh, and thought back to the endless days of worrying over Evan, and over the bedside visits themselves. "For almost two weeks, all I could do for you was sit beside you—trying to spend whatever time you had left together, to motivate you to come back, and even then I had to be careful not to seem too concerned. What little I could do, could so easily have been too much… So when Michael showed up, looking for help, it was nice to be able to channel that frustration into doing something constructive, for somebody. So I invited him here for dinner."

"You make him sound like a stray puppy."

"He was, in a lot of ways. And don't judge; Natalie's told me about all the neighborhood animals and the homeless people you brought home as a child. On one level, this isn't so different…"

"Except that my charity cases were just down on their luck, not interplanetary mass murdering serial killers…"

Ignoring the primetime drama plotline suggestion, Max continued his explanation. "As they _let_ me get to know him, his whole lack of backstory was beginning to wear thin, and since I didn't know any better, I was trying to help jog his memories. So I put on some music, hoping he might remember something. He obviously didn't recognize the country music I played; but he asked about dancing. So I put on some classical; we… at his insistence, we ended up dancing a waltz—just to show him what it was, hoping it would help him remember. And he… he landed on top of me when we tripped on the bed."

"He _what_?" Evan stood up from that bed immediately, appalled at what Max's charity seemed to have become. His head swirled with ideas of Max's "connecting" with a Wraith while he lay comatose several floors away. His stomach wrenched with waves of repulsion, anger and betrayal.

"Vee, I'm fine and nothing else happened. I pushed him off, and he left," Max insisted with equal guilt and firmness.

"Good," snapped Evan, pacing around and away from the offending bed. "Do they know about this?" he worried aloud, meaning Sheppard and Weir—anybody else.

Max shook his head emphatically, "Not even Heightmeyer."

Evan breathed a little relief at that small consolation, in the midst of this new twist on their already complicated situation. But now he couldn't clear his mind of the image of Max and a Wraith together on the bed; he nearly gagged as he tried to wipe the range of unpleasant expressions from his face.

In the midst of the emotional maelstrom, Evan suddenly realized how very tired he was; and he saw that a remorseful Max noticed that shift in his energy as well, and stepped toward him with clear intention to spend whatever time was needed to mend things with him, as always, to make things right.

Motioning with his good hand for Max to stop, Evan admitted, "I'm relieved you're OK, I am; but this is all a lot to take in." He gave Max a kiss on the forehead, observing, "We could probably both use some sleep, and can talk more tomorrow." Looking Max directly in the eyes, he also suggested, "As for the gripe with Beckett and all… I'm not saying you need to stop feeling the way you do; but you do need to pull it together enough to take better care of yourself, and not to give them any more reason to take issue with your reaction. For both our sakes."

With a quick squeeze on the arm and a tacked on "Verily," Evan headed out of the room, one part of his mind knowing that all he could report to Sheppard, honestly, was that he'd tried…

As the door closed behind Evan, Max stood locked in a weary rage beside the bed. Whatever grand intentions he and the base leadership had held in creating and befriending the… the were-Wraith, the entire exercise had done little but create harm at every turn: dead soldiers, damaged relationships—doubts and deceptions all 'round. Max flushed with another wave of righteous anger at himself and the others, and was about to apply a nice football kick to the tray still sitting on the bed's edge, when the room rang with an urgent chime.

Smiling with anxious relief, he jogged to the door, vowing to use the gift of Evan's return as an opportunity to fix at least that injured relationship. But the hallway was empty; and he realized it had been the priority message alert from his laptop on the desk.

Desperate for distraction, Max stabbed at it and growled at the automated message:

_MAX ROYCE:_

_DR BECKETT_

_has requested that you schedule an appointment or stop by the Infirmary_

_AT YOUR FIRST OPPORTUNITY_

_for FOLLOWUP_

_re: REPORTED HEADACHES._

_This medical request is rated as HIGH priority._

_Our staff would be happy to confirm this request with your supervisor, if this would help with scheduling._

_The Infirmary is staffed all shifts, all hours for urgent medical issues and/or consultation._

Stifling the urge to strike or scream at the messenger screen, Royce instead took a series of deep breaths and flexed his hands, also not daring the universe with the question/challenge of how this could possibly get any worse.

* * *

NOTES

1. PLAYLIST: "I Got You Babe" was a number one hit in 1965 for Sonny and Cher.

2. _Conversion_ (SGA 2.08).


	15. Day Twentythree

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY TWENTY-THREE

Royce was just doubling back down the opposite side of the pier, when he found himself joined abruptly by a new morning running mate.

"Colonel Sheppard?" he started, stuttering in his pace before thumbing his music off.

"Dr Royce." The new arrival fell in beside him, and asked rhetorically. "Mind if I join you this morning?"

Not that he could stop him, Royce shrugged and continued his jog, determined to let Sheppard make whatever entrée the visit entailed.

No more than a minute later, Sheppard jumped to his point, "Dr Weir says you still intend to resign, and despite Michael's attacks, are drafting a formal report on us to the IOA."

"I believe the words I used were 'report the war crime'; but yes, I am very much inclined to do both." Royce eyed the base commander, wondering where this conversation and workout were going.

"Don't be a Kavanagh."

"What?"

"Never mind. Look, Elizabeth feels horrible about what happened with Michael; none of us, except maybe Ronon, is entirely comfortable with it. But it's done, we had the best of intentions, and—"

"The road to hell…"

"I am not having a philosophical or moral debate with you, Max," Sheppard counter-interrupted irritably; the sentence was clearly imperative, not descriptive. "I came to ask you not to push this with the SGC, IOA, or anyone else. We've already sent our reports to our superiors, who aren't going to be any happier than we are; and we're likely going to pay a price for it by sheer fact that Michael escaped with knowledge of the city. There's nothing to be gained by creating bureaucratic hassles on top of that intelligence leak."

"Is that all ethical conduct is to you, Colonel? An inconvenient administrative requirement?"

"Of course not, but…"

"But shit, 'sir.' You're here to pressure me not to rock the paperwork boat for you; you didn't come to talk with me about how what you did was wrong and how that bothers you. And, before you compound those sins with a cover-up, remember there are security cameras scattered through the area. Our face time today is on tape."

"Actually, the cameras in this section are down this morning for… diagnostics," corrected Sheppard matter-of-factly.

"What a coincidence..." Royce tried to not let the sudden knot in his stomach show. "So how concerned should I be then, that you've followed me alone into a deserted and unmonitored part of the City? You have motive, now opportunity, and we're pretty clear on where you stand on ends justifying means…"

"I didn't come out here to hurt or threaten you, Doctor," assured the officer dryly.

"Those good intentions again?"

Sheppard opted not to point out how paranoid Royce sounded; Heightmeyer had reminded him and Weir about Royce's well-documented temper, and informed them that he had some good reasons to be sensitive about persecution. That combination was likely fueling his lingering anger at the authority figures whom he had no choice but to rely on in Pegasus, whom he'd also held in very high esteem, and therefore who'd had so much farther to fall in his eyes… "As a matter of fact… I'm here becauseI don't want to lose Major Lorne."

"What's that got to do with anything?" quickly demanded Royce, not expecting or happy with this turn in the conversation.

"The complaint you're considering is going to trigger an investigation, probably a long and thorough one. Which means that every person and every action in Atlantis from at least the past month is going to be dragged through the ringer."

"And the Major has been flat on his back in the Infirmary for the better part of the time in question; so his culpability in this is what again?"

"None at all. In fact, I'm sure the Air Force and the IOA will be very pleased to know that in the midst of everything else going on, he had his good friend Max on site for moral support."

The run was getting worse by the sentence; and Royce made no attempt to hide the irritation in his voice. "Colonel, I don't know what you're getting at—"

"He's good man, and a solid officer; he could go far here. For that reason, and for what he's been through, I'd rather not put him or anyone in the position of asking or telling—or _not_ asking and _not_ telling—things that don't need to be bothered with. I'm sure you feel the same." The officer's emphasis left little question about the policy he was invoking.

Running on the outside of the pair, Royce grabbed Sheppard by the arm and spun him around, "You cowardly son of bitch!" He brought his right fist around awkwardly, and narrowly missed catching Sheppard in the jaw.

Better trained, more experienced with manual combat and not distracted by emotion, Sheppard easily stepped aside, brought his foot in front Royce's momentum, and shoved the scientist forward over that low pivot point.

As Royce fell, Sheppard yelled at him, trying to get through the anger. "_I'm _not threatening you, Royce; I'm trying to point out what is very likely to come to light if the IOA much less a military board of inquiry gets brought in."

Royce had rolled and righted himself, his rage doubled by the fact that his own concern and carelessness had created this danger. Being together had become ruinous, just as he'd worried and warned it would. Evan was imperiled, because of him, and by a superior who seemed able to value his mission over his morals. Royce charged Sheppard again out of sheer, irrational fury at the clear threat, regardless of its source or his actions' low likelihood of negating it.

Again, Sheppard handily turned his motion and emotion against him, and quickly had him pinned in a headlock. "Will you please calm down and listen to me? You've done some great work here; you seem like a nice enough guy; and if for no other reason than your sticking it to McKay occasionally, I'd hate to see you go. But there is a bigger picture here, boiling down to our doing what it takes to defend this Expedition as a gateway to Earth.

"So, you object to how the game is played out here? Fine. You want to take your ball and go home? Fine. But don't invite a courtroom circus through here to make it even worse for everyone else. There's guilt aplenty and danger enough already; no Hague proceedings needed."

He loosened his grip a little to emphasize the interpersonal understanding he was also trying to show. "And, I hope that you're good for Evan, I do. In fact you damn well better be, not that it's any of my business. But I _guarantee_ you that he's good for Atlantis. So if we have to lose you for your conscience's sake, let that be the last of the harm done…"

Royce had slowly eased his struggle, and hesitated in planting a blow to the soldier's groin or digging his fingers under the Colonel's kneecap.

Sensing the settling calm, Sheppard summarized, "Don't risk dragging Evan down just to make a more-than-obvious point to the rest of us."

Royce slowly released his grip on Sheppard's leg; and the Colonel proportionately continued to loosen his hold as well. Finally the latter narrated, "I'm going to let go now and step away. If you'll do the same, and think about what I said, I promise I'm not going to do anything to you or Evan. Whatever else you think of me, I believe you know that I'm a man of my word."

The other jogger did not react noticeably, and his breathing had long since gone silent.

Taking his chance, Sheppard counted down, "One, two, three," and released. Royce did as well, letting the officer step out of arm's reach; but he remained on one knee, glaring up at the victor with only slightly lessened anger.

"There, that wasn't so bad," soothed Sheppard. Shifting to an intentionally more sincere tone, he reminded, "You can't help Michael any more. If you really want to protect Lorne, think bigger than me and now," and slowly turned and jogged back toward the city center.

Royce watched him go, before sliding ungraciously to the pier decking and running his hands through his hair, thinking the situation was best summarized in a single word: _Frak!_

* * *

Two hours later, McKay slid the tablet at Royce across the desk's surface, scattering the stack of papers he'd been working on.

Giving the interrupter his best over-the-glasses glare, the interpreter took a deep breath rather than hurl it back at his head, and explained with intentional disinterest, "I've given you everything there is on the SAWgates, boss. If you can't get it to work, we 'soft sciences' aren't going to be able to make it happen for you…"

"It's a copy of your personnel file," corrected McKay flatly. "The official and super-secret portion provided by the US military or CIA or somebody; the kind of stuff that not just anybody has access to, even here."

"Rodney, I'm _really_ not in the mood for you today. So if you want me to acknowledge that your security clearance is bigger than mine, fine; I'm secure in my secrethood. Now go overcompensate with someone else." Royce looked back down to the hardcopy pad on which he'd been scribbling.

"Just look at the highlighted section…," the visitor persisted, wiggling a finger toward the middle of the display.

Reluctantly, Royce set down his pen, picked up the tablet and glowered across it and the table. Refreshing the display, he saw that, there under a list a credentials and accomplishments, below the heading "Psych Profile," was a blotch of yellow, two words marked to stand out to him: "known homosexual."

Royce's irritation all but evaporated; and the implications of the simple syllables caught the snide comment in his throat. He looked up at his supervisor with a flash of fear he wished he could have stopped so quickly.

McKay clearly saw it, as his own annoyance also vanished. "As far as I know, only Elizabeth, John and I have seen this here; maybe Kate. But it's there, in your IOA record at least."

Royce carefully set down the machine, and forced nonchalance into his voice. "Why are you showing me this?"

"It's called a peace offering, you dolt! None of us care, unless you try hitting on us," explained the physicist, casting a glance at the tabletop as if counting all hands present and accounted for. "But you're wearing a US flag on your arm and most of the people with guns on the Expedition do too."

"It's this patch and not the Union Jack, because the US is paying my salary here; I am not a member of the US military," coolly reminded Royce, clearer on the warning being given. "And through countless background checks and clearance grants, including those that sat me here, this has never been an issue."

"Not for you," McKay quickly responded.

"Meaning?"

Impatience let sarcasm back in, "Geez, Royce, does the hard scientist have to spell it out for the word doctor? When plaintiff civilian files charges with the IOA and Stargate Command, said linguist and… all… his… 'best friends'… will also be under scrutiny." The air quotes were particularly pronounced.

"We're not best friends, Rodney; you have nothing to worry about," he assured, turning back to his work.

"Max!" shouted McKay, slamming his hands down on the table. "I am trying to help you; is that really so hard to understand and accept?"

"The last time you showed this much interest in me, it was on order of Weir or Sheppard, or both," Royce fired back. "So yes, I am wondering whether your visit is motivated less by generosity than by a recent talk with the good Colonel!"

"Why? Is he filing an IOA complaint too?" gaped McKay, astonished at the possibility.

"Never mind."

McKay persisted, "If Sheppard made a similar suggestion, it's not because we've talked about it; we haven't. But the coincidence should tell you something regardless: That we're both trying to look out for you and Lorne."

With McKay's having named them together explicitly, Royce looked up and met the gaze of his supervisor.

Relaxing slightly at having finally gotten through, McKay continued. "Look, I know I'm not the easiest person in the world to get along with. That's actually one reason I was so keen to change worlds—less people here to annoy me too. But you do good work and, the lucky shot on Meerux aside, you have tolerated me a lot better than a lot of people. Especially the ones with guns," he whispered. "Point is, I know you're upset about the whole Michael thing, maybe rightly so. But none of my physical evidence on the SAWgate has panned out; if we're gonna get that, I need _you_ on the logs and archive, in addition to all the other linguistics tasks on your list."

"What are you saying, Rodney?"

McKay nearly whimpered at having to connect the dots and/or admit it aloud; but he swallowed and said simply, "I'm asking you not to resign for my sake, and not to bring the paper-pushers down on us, for everyone's. I'm asking you to stay and focus on the contributions—non-medical—that we _can_ make here in Pegasus."

Despite its Mc-centrism, the statement was as honest as Royce had heard from his division head. He handed the digital tablet back to McKay, admitting, "I appreciate the concern, Rodney. I will think about it."

McKay nodded and accepted the device—what more could he do? Clearing the screen and tucking it under his arm, he turned and slowly left the room. As he passed along the glass walls, he glanced in to see Royce still standing solemnly at the desk. And as he stepped into the transporter, the theme from _Harry's Game_ echoed out of the lab behind him.(1)

* * *

"Hey, you got a minute?" asked the familiar and now plaintive voice from the door. Fresh from a morning of desk duty, and with a less adventurous agenda than on his first visit, Evan leaned in the lab's doorway.

"Uh, sure," Max nodded, resolved that Evan was both the only and the last person he really wanted to see at this time. Trying to focus on the welcome comfort, he set his pen down and his arms across the legal pad on which he'd been scribbling.

Walking up to the desk opposite Max, Evan jumped right to his objective. "I wanted to apologize for leaving like I did last night." He held up his good hand to cut off Max's move to interrupt. "I wasn't there; I can only imagine what this whole experience has been like for you; and, more than anything else, I trust you, Prime. But I was just so shocked that you ended up in—_on_ the bed with him. I'm not happy about that; but more importantly, I'm glad you're OK. And I appreciate you're telling me; in the midst of everything else, you could have easily left that out…" Evan reached out his hand, offering more than a handshake to confirm his contrition, his commitment, their connection.

Max nodded his acceptance, and hesitated slightly in reaching out to match Evan's grip.

"What's wrong?" Evan deduced a new or deeper concern immediately. "Don't give me that face. You're always saying you can tell I'm frustrated when I purse my lips; but I'm not the only one with tell-tale tells."

"I've just still got a lot on my plate, and on my mind," non-committed the apparently poor emotional poker player.

Glancing out at the empty hallway, Evan stepped around behind him, and enveloped him in a sling-induced, lop-sided embrace topped with a kiss to the crown of his head. "And what are you working on that's got you so verklempt?" He reached down with his good hand, to move the obscuring arm.

"My resignation," stated Max flatly, wiggling out of the chair with the pad.

"What?"

"I told you, I really feel Weir, Sheppard and Beckett stepped over the line with what they did."

Remaining where he was as Max moved to another side of the worktable, Evan sighed as the conversation returned to the previous evening's impasse. "I know that's bothering you, that you were considering filing a formal complaint upstairs; and I understand why. But I didn't realize that you were really thinking about leaving."

Max picked at his pen and shrugged.

Evan stepped toward him, but only by a single pace. "Is this about the whole Michael-dance thing? Like I told you, I don't like it; but…"

"No, no. You're being incredibly understanding about that," assured the penitent. "It's the whole situation here."

"You're not usually one to run from a fight…," reminded his two decade companion, focusing on the reaction rather than the cause in the hopes he'd have more success. Among the stories he remembered were those of a brawl in a San Francisco restaurant kitchen long ago, and more recently, a grapevine-regaled legend about downing Atlantis' resident giant-in-his-own-mind.

"There's no fight here, Vee. The damage is done; and now Michael's escaped because they couldn't let go of their goal. So their dirty little secret is literally out of the bag."

"Not one of your better mixed metaphors," grinned Evan, trying to make light enough of the situation to find some way of turning Max from his headstrong goal. He again offered his good hand across the corner of the table.

Max looked over his shoulder at the transparent walls and then around the ceiling of the room, but did not take it.

Evan wiggled his hand insistently. "There's no one watching, Prime; and you watched me sweep the room for bugs yesterday. While I appreciate the discretion on our behalf, this paranoia is really beginning to worry me."

"I'm not paranoid, Evan!" shouted Max, knocking a book off the desk onto the floor. "It's called being cautious. What I am is pissed off!"

"Then let's talk about it, get it out," suggested Evan calmly, pulling up a stool and sitting down in invitation.

"I have talked about it. _We've _already talked about it!"

"Obviously not enough, since you're still seething," his counterpart said with slightly raised voice. He pointed toward the next chair, with a stern appeal on his face. "So tell me again; or tell me something new. Something is obviously still really bothering you. And I may not be able to fix it, but I can help carry it. That's what I'm here for; please let me."

Hands on hips, Max tried to decide whether or what to share.

"Is it… us?" asked Evan, not sure he really wanted to know the answer, but more than a little afraid that it might be the longer-term, underlying issue. Max had been distant since he'd arrived; he'd felt some connection—attraction?—to the fictional Kenmore...

"No," was the immediate, unequivocal response.

"Then what? Tell me."

"No."

"For god's sake, Max; talk to me!" Evan jumped toward him, demanding and pleading simultaneously. He took Max's hand and tried to pull him closer if not toward the tall chairs; but Max held his ground.

Recognizing the immoveable object, Evan stepped toward him instead, and tried a different tact. "Ok, then I'll say something… I'm concerned that you're drafting a resignation letter, either considering or actually intending to submit it. And while it's your job, this will affect me too, affect us. And you won't talk to me about that?" He allowed a little honest hurt into his face and voice.

With a bite of his lip, Max softened. "I was just _thinking_ about it, options open. I'm just so frustrated…"

Evan nodded sincerely and took another step toward him. "I know you've witnessed and had to interpret some pretty wild and wicked things in your career; but this…," he looked out at the alien skyline and all it signified. "This is an altogether different level and type of intense. But please don't let the past few weeks scare you away; give it a chance?"

"Can you honestly tell me that recent events are really that out of the ordinary here? I've seen the orientation tapes and heard stories from other staff; but you've worked with this program for a few years. Honestly, Vee, are we just in a particularly dangerous period? And with Michael escaped, do you really think it's going to get any quieter?"

Evan looked down and flipped at an open book on the desk, unable to argue against the regularity of danger and adventure surrounding any stargate. "Is _that_ really what this is about? Work-related stress?"

"You don't think what they did is wrong?"

"I didn't say that," Evan sighed as he sat down again, slightly satisfied that the recurring issue was not their own relationship. "What I asked was whether Michael was the only thing going on here for you. Are you that hung up on a fresh-faced fake and the occupational hazards? Or is this about how on the 'down low' we have to be here? Help me understand, Max; because I don't get what you're running from, and I'm not used to your running from anything. So, I don't know how to help; and that's killing me!"

"Fine! You wanna know what's bothering me here in this floating bulls-eye, light years from our home planet? OK, here it is: Bad enough that our bosses have committed war crimes leading to the escape of a rightfully angry quasi-Wraith; and that they still appear to be planning to repeat the experiment given the opportunity. But worse still is that should I lodge my displeasure with those facts, then—"

"Then what, Max?" Having heard the other concerns already, Evan sensed Max's sudden hesitation indicated that they had truly, finally gotten to the heart of the matter.

The righteous anger and fierce flush on Max's face evaporated, replaced instantly by the quiet fears of guilty confession. He visibly shrank as he shared, "Then any investigation by higher-ups is likely to call attention to us. Any efforts for justice I make on the medical experimentation front put us at risk; and I've already endangered you enough..."

"Hun, no," soothed Evan adamantly, stepping up into the sad space and placing his good hand reassuringly on Max's cheek. "I'm sorry you've had such a rough time of it; but I am _so_ glad that you're here, with me, for all the reasons we've talked about. For my part, I wouldn't change that for anything. For the first time, we're really together, come what may."

"But we aren't, Vee," corrected Max, the energy returning to his voice. "From day one here, you've been focused on our outer space happily ever after. But have you seen any white picket fences in Atlantis? I haven't, and it's not for lack of looking… In the past three weeks, I've run this city raw, out of worry for you, out of frustration at not being able to do more or even say more, trying to figure out some way this could work when you woke up. And now that you're up and about, that part hasn't gotten any easier."

Evan's face grew cross, pointing out, "Perhaps I have been playing my typically optimistic role in this relationship; but, the much appreciated bedside vigil aside, you've been nothing but hesitant on the 'us' front since you got here."

"Because just like every other time we ever get to be together, I don't wanna get my hopes up only to have my heart broken, you rosy-glassed git!" Max clenched his fists in angry frustration—whether at not being able to express his perspective better, or not caring for his points in the first place. He pressed the back of one fist against his lips, holding back a reaction until he could make it what he knew it needed to be.

Before Evan could intervene, Max held his hand up abruptly, and reached for his radio headset, "This is Dr Royce."

Evan watched as he listened intently without breaking eye contact, before reaching under his glasses to pinch his eyes and forcing the emotion from his voice.

"Sí, el está conmigo… No, el no habla español."(2) His grimace turned to an exaggerated smile as he put on a happy show. "Ay, no; pérdonenos. Estamos teniendo un desacuerdo, verdad; pero todo está bien. Gracias por su preocupación. Lo siento que te molestamos, Lalo."

He mimed to Evan that the walls had been listening. "Thanks for checking. I'll see you at the divisional meeting in the morning, if not before." He thumbed the headset and explained, "That was Dr Corrigan down the hall.(3) He heard us shouting and wanted to make sure everything was okay." He crossed his arms and cocked his head as if to punctuate that this was exactly the sort of justified worry that concerned them.

"Nice handling of the nosy neighbor; but everything isn't OK…" Evan led them back to the stools, where Max sat silently for a moment, regaining his composure. Sitting close, he took one of Max's hands in his slung arm, and with his mobile one, drew the medallion from under Max's shirt. "I gave you this because we knew our being together was an ongoing challenge, because I wasn't always going to be there with you." He raised Max's chin, blue eyes meeting brown as he asked for a reciprocal gift of trust and understanding. "Do you remember?"

_

* * *

_

Late 2004

_The protest overheard from the hallway stopped Evan in his tracks; and he stood just outside the door, so as not to intrude but still able to hear the response._

_"I know, kiddo; I don't want Uncle Evan to go either. None of us does," assured the voice, tucking the nearly four-year-old into bed as the departee peeked around the doorframe._

_"Then why he is leaving?"_

_"'Why _is_ he leaving?' Because he has to go do his job; like when Mummy and Daddy leave some mornings, and you and Pate go to school. Uncle Evan's job is just farther away, so he'll be gone for a longer time."_

_"How long?"_

_"Very long, Cooper," obliged the doting uncle, adding softly, "Too long."_

_"Where?" continued the interrogation._

_"Colorado."_

_"Where's that?"_

_"Another state."_

_"Where in Colorado?"_

_"At a place called Cheyenne Mountain."_

_"He works in a mountain?" The wide eyes matched the rise in energy and curiosity. "What does he do in the mountain?"_

_"Well, I don't know exactly; it's a secret."_

_"I won't tell," whispered the little confidant._

_"I know you won't." Max nestled a stuffed animal in beside the boy. "It's like… Uncle Evan is like a superhero; his job is to go and help people, and to keep us safe. But like a lot of superheroes—like Superman and Wonder Woman—he has to keep his family and his work separate, his identity a secret; it's part of the job."_

_"What's 'denty'?"_

_Max chuckled, "I thought you were going to ask where his cape was, but you—" playfully rubbing the yawning child's nose, "—you ask about the big word! We'll talk about 'identity' tomorrow; for now, you need to get some sleep so we can see Uncle Evan off to the airport..."_

_"Promise you'll tell me tomorrow."_

_"Promise," the word was given as the sheets were re-tucked._

_"Will you sing to me, Uncle Max?" asked the big, drowsy eyes as he snuggled down into the covers._

_"Only if I can sing too," advised the other uncle, stepping into the room and settling onto the bedside behind his counterpart. He placed a kiss on and then nestled his chin beside the red head, and joined in a soft, familiar lullaby._

* * *

"_What is it, Evan?" the voice asked. "You know I don't like surprises."_

_"Just hold still and trust me," he chided softly, batting away a curious hand, as he reached around to tie off the loose ends. Confident that the tied-unseen knot would hold, he folded his arms back under the pale, freckled shoulders propped before him. "OK, you can open 'em."_

_Dark eyes above him snapped wide in the dim light, and then awkwardly tried to look down at the object suspended before them. Unable to get a clear view from the odd angle, Max balanced himself on one elbow, and scooped the dangle up where he could see it better: a flat, dull metallic circle, hanging from a thin rope._

_"Don't worry; the cord is woven, not leather," anticipated the voice below him. "Flip it over."_

_Max rolled the pendant through his fingers, to find a series of calligraphic strokes etched around the ring. His eyes softened as he gazed down into the clear blue pair looking up at him hopefully._

"_Is the Hebrew right? 'Ahuvi sheli?' It wasn't easy to try to get the gender reference correct, without risking too much with the translator or metalsmith."_

"_It's perfect, 'my beloved,'" grinned Max, letting it twirl freely as he bent down to give an appreciative kiss to his relieved benefactor._

_As he neared his prize, he was startled when the necklace seemed to snag suddenly, and twist on his neck. He tried to pull away, while contorting to see what had happened. "What?"_

_Reassuring hands spread across his back, as Evan explained through a chuckling reaction, "Sorry; you didn't give me a chance to explain." He tucked his chin in, to look at the metallic link leading up from his own neck to the newly gifted charm. "It's magnetic."_

_Sure enough, Max could now see that his bauble pulled Evan's own military jewelry up off his chest, and held them securely at a point not quite midway between their respective, parallel wearers._

"_You're always mentioning how I keep my dogtags on all the time; so I figured you'd appreciate the clichéd, but genuinely felt metaphor?" His eyes echoed the hopeful uncertainty of his question._

_Normally a man of many words, Max couldn't think of any sufficient to express his approval, gratitude or affection at that moment. So he completed the interrupted kiss as a prologue to a greater non-verbal eloquence…_

* * *

"_Ahuvi?" Evan later asked in the dark, with a simultaneous caress on the arm rising and falling with his own steady breathing._

_"Yes, Vee?" Max smiled at his new pet name, and wondered whether its gifter had realized the abbreviated version he'd been using as a nickname for years._

_"You never really answered tonight when Peter asked about your favorite place in the world."_

_"I gave several suggestions, thank you very much."_

_"Yeah, but I don't think Angor Wat is what he and Natalie were looking for in a family vacation destination, not with two little guys."_

_"Hence the more tyke-friendly ideas I followed up with."_

_"Exactly my point," chuckled the soldier. "You responded to his question with a number of answers, but never _the_ favorite place."_

_"Are you asking me now?"_

_"No, I'm just making random observations about the dinner chatter. I thought it might enhance the afterglow," deadpanned Evan, softly running a finger down Max's back, before jostling him gently to emphasize the sarcasm._

_Max turned his head to rest his chin on Evan's chest, as if they could see facial expressions in the darkened room. "We've known each other how many years, and you don't know?"_

_"Well, I'd guess Muir Woods; but you could easily have said that tonight and didn't. Besides, you've seen a great deal more of this world since we first met and compared favorite Headlands camping sites. I don't want to assume; and yeah, I'd like to know."_

_Max placed his head down above Evan's heart, and lay still as their breathing fell back into rhythm._

_"Max?" asked Evan, concerned at the flagrant refusal to answer. "Hun, what's wrong? Why won't you tell me?"_

_"It won't help…" whispered a suddenly shaky voice; and Evan felt a cool, wet drop fall onto his bare chest. _

_Alarmed at this incredibly rare and apparently unprovoked show of emotion, he cupped Max's chin toward him and shifted himself lower in the bed, so their faces were more level. "Hey, hey; what's wrong?" That they'd each seen the other cry less than a handful of times in their long history meant there was something big going on under the surface; and after two rare weeks of R&R together, Evan didn't have any immediate idea what it was._

_Max swallowed; and Evan wiped another tear felt on the mirrored cheek. "My favorite place… is right here."_

"_San Jose?" asked Evan incredulously._

"_No, you dunce," sniffled Max. "Right here. With my superhero..."_

"_Max…"_

_"You asked. And I'm sorry if it doesn't make tomorrow morning's good-bye any easier; it's true."_

_"It wasn't a complaint," a kiss confirmed._

"_I was hoping this assignment to Colorado Springs would have made connecting a little easier, or at least more frequent. No such luck. So as part of your secret identity life, I've learned to just appreciate you whenever and wherever saving the world can spare you."_

_Evan played with the new necklace, tugging at his own tags and warm from resting between them. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"_

"_Never enough," sighed Max, settling down against him again._

"_I do love you. Verily." He tapped three open fingers against Max's back, for emphasis._

"_Verily," was whispered back. And after another moment, a final question followed. "What's the maximum penalty again for going AWOL?"_

* * *

Tugging softly at the woven strands, the giver again evoked the connection the metal ring symbolized, "I'm here now. Ahuvi, please talk to me?"

Clearing his throat, Max nodded and drew back the curtain on his collected fears. If there was anyone in his life he could and should be open with about this… "Back at the house, there are nights where I miss you so badly that I actually buy your favorite _chicken_ tikka and leave it open in the kitchen just to have that familiar smell in the house. Or I go into the study, pick up a paintbrush and just sit in the presence of the pieces you need to come back and finish. Or- or wear one of your shirts to bed, just to have that silly, poor substitute with me…

"One of the reasons I love Nats and the boys so much is that, when I can't be with you and can't talk to anyone else about how that feels- for just a little while I can be with them and see some look, some feature, some glimmer of you in them. Those are the crumbs I cling to, Evan; that's how much I hate every minute of being apart." Precious tears counted off his list of pains, and spoke to their intensity.

"But being here these past weeks, being with you, hearing your voice, seeing your face and how you sneak looks at me… To have you on death's door and be close enough to touch, or hold you, or tell you how I feel… And _not_ to be able to? And then, to swallow up both that joy and that pain, and just sit on it silently! I thought missing you was hard enough, but this—this is excruciating."

Evan's eyes had watered in response to one of the few sorrows in all the worlds that could touch him that deeply; and he tried in vain to wipe away the angry, liquid pain he witnessed and had helped make.

Max seized the comforting hands. "I'm not strong enough to be this detached, Vee. And more than that, I don't _want_ to be. I love you too much to pretend I don't." He sniffled as he attempted to stiffen his trembling upper lip. "So, as ironically fucked up as it is, I'd actually rather pine away from an impossible distance than hold back from right beside you."

Evan leaned in and gave him a quick kiss, lingering cheek to cheek with what comfort and closeness he could offer. "I am so sorry… There's got to be another way," he grasped, glancing dismissively at the nearby legal pad and its content.

"Beyond keeping up this stressful charade, what are the options?" asked Max, not defensively, just matter-of-factly, as he wiped his face. "You'll what? Come out officially to Colonel Sheppard, in the hopes he'll be as lax on it as he is on haircuts and salutes? And when someone gets pissed off at you, and reports it over his head, then what? When a less compassionate CO sails in? When we get complacent and careless, or someone else accidently slips up in some note home? I'd get shipped back to a desk job or teaching; you'd get dishonorably drummed out… Or you could request a Stateside assignment so you can fight traffic and budget cuts instead of who-knows-what beyond the event horizon?"

He shared an empty smile, and concluded, "Of course not. In just the few hours of consciousness we're actually shared here, and in the stories everyone told me about the Major they know and respect… I can see that this, here, is what you love doing; what you're good at. It's like you've gotten your pilot wings all over again; it's who you are. And we all can see that, and love you for it. _This_ is the flyboy that I know and love too. So how could I expect you to give it up? I can't and I won't."

"So _you_ have to sacrifice this opportunity, to deny the Expedition your expertise by quitting? That's not fair. And your staying or leaving affects us both, Max; so why do you get to make the unilateral decision on what's best for us?"

Max looked and tried to step away; but Evan pulled him back, again nodding toward the scribbled notes on the table. "You're making this decision, for us, without talking to me about it? Tell me how that's right."

"We're talking about it now…"

"Prime, I know this is tough, especially on you and especially recently. But it's not easy on me either; and it's not that new for either of us. Maybe I'm too idealistic about it; but you can't deny that we've got opportunities here that we've never had before."

"Evan, we live and work in a highly militarized spaceship crewed by a small group of people without a lot of other ways to occupy their attentions. You're second in command of the garrison, and I'm the redhead from Youtube that literally anyone can talk to. We couldn't be much more conspicuous in this fishbowl!"

"I'm not saying it would be easy! But now that we've put that challenge on the table, we can face it head on. Together." He pulled Max closer, modeling the solidarity he was asking for, and kissed his hands. "I know you've put up with a lot, and gone without too, for the sake of my career; never imagine that I don't see or appreciate that. It's one more reason I _love_ you so much. In fact, when I volunteered for this mission, I tried-"

"What?" Max pushed away from him instantly. "'Volunteered'? You told me that you were _assigned_ here; ordered!"

"No, Max… I…," Evan fumbled for words—upset at having said it now, guilty for having even appeared to misrepresent the facts of the mission in the hurried and necessarily coded message months before, and furious that whatever had been said and understood was only making an already bad situation now much worse.

His facial tones competing with his hair, Max accompanied his accusations with a stabbing finger. "Your voicemail said 'new assignment', Evan Lorne. For all I knew, it was gonna be the last thing I had from you; so I saved it, listened to it, memorized… You _chose_ to ship out across the universe?"

As best he could, Evan put his hands up as he spoke quietly, hoping the combination would calm down the fury before him. "Max, I volunteered for _302_ _piloting_ which led to the deployment here during the siege last fall… Look, this isn't helping. Breathe…"

"So _I _shouldn't make decisions that affect us both, but you can? Well, fuck you, GI Joe! And the faster-than-light sense of duty you rode in on!" shouted Max, inhaling deeply, but not for the purpose he'd been instructed. He opened his mouth as if to shout again, but nothing came out; he was so angry, his considerable vocabularies failed him.

But before Evan could take advantage of the pause, Max slapped his headset and poured his energy into a scathing, "Alright already; what?" He closed his eyes, paced and flexed his fists as he forced himself to speak with less emotion. "Yes, Sergeant… Now…? No, I'm fine; that's fine. I'll be there in a moment."

He tapped the connection shut and glared across the room, clearly having only paused his eruption. "I am summoned," he spat without further commentary, snatching his vest off the back of his chair and heading for the door.

"Max, wait. Max!" called Evan, coming around the table and following him. "We need to talk this out; and you don't need to be going anywhere this upset."

Stepping into the corridor, he saw the tail end of a double-handed British "bird" as Max stormed into the transporter, and smacked at the destination map.(4)

"MAX!" half-shouted Evan as he jogged from the lab, now angry at the abrupt end to such an important and yet unresolved set of issues. He reached the doors as they opened to reveal, of course, an empty travel booth. "Damn it," he seethed, kicking at the floor, and resting his good arm on his head, as he considered what to do next.

As he spun slowly inside the Lantean elevator, a movement up the hallway caught his eye; and he just glimpsed a blue shirt and dark hair shrink into a doorway. "Everything's fine, Corrigan," he shouted, mostly to himself, as he punched the controls and deflated. "Mind your own business..."

* * *

"No word from any of our off-world sources or recon teams about Michael or any change in Wraith activity," summarized Sheppard, as he and Weir huddled over reports. "But we still have to assume he survived; and it's just a matter of time before they've debriefed him on everything that happened here."

"John, all it would take is his uttering just a few words. Whether he survived to tell them anything beyond the fact that we're still here is just their bonus."

"So the current Alpha Site will be gone by the end of tomorrow, just in case he somehow managed to recognize or backtrack to where he was held. If they come here before we get a new outpost established, it may be a speedy and sparse evacuation…"

The Expedition leader nodded, having expected that they would need to take no chances in the post-Michael cleanup. And speaking of, "Sounds like we've done everything we can on this end to enhance our mission security; and still no response from our initial report to the IOA and SGC. So that leaves us with where we stand with Royce: whether he's resigning, reporting us, both or neither, I think it's important we all can get along until he's able to leave, if that's what he wants. Whatever that's going to be, we need to know."

Sheppard nodded and sat back in his chair. "Our next scheduled data burst exchange with Earth is the end of today, right? If he's planning to include his complaint, or go through himself…"

"Do you want him to leave, John?"

"Do you? There's a lot of awkward issues involving him…"

"But… He's well-liked, and has been doing great work on the linguistics front. For the SAWgate work alone, even Rodney talks about him like a treasured piece of equipment. So beyond the intense disagreement around the retrovirus, in which he's not alone, and the fist to Rodney's face, I'm hard-pressed to give a formal reason why he _should_ go."

"And as he's clearly—and repeatedly—pointed out, we can't hold him here against his will. So it really is up to him; and whatever his decision, I for one would like to nail down that loose end so we can focus on other priorities."

"You're right," she acknowledged resolutely. Peering across the walkway to the current control room personnel, she tapped her headset, "Sergeant?"

Sheppard saw Chuck look up from his console and in their direction, but could only hear Weir's instructions to him. "Can you please locate Dr Royce and have him report here immediately. It's urgent."

The distant head nodded and turned to another segment of his workstation.

Weir looked back to Sheppard, as he pointed out, "The _Daedalus_ has only just left Earth; so we've got nearly three weeks before her guns are back to give us cover; and depending how things are looking at that point, she might not immediately head back. So unless you want to give him special permission to gate home, he needs to understand that his travel options are limited."

Weir sighed, hating to have this conversation at all, but understanding that they needed to know where they stood with Royce—to plan for the projects he would or would not be continuing to work on, to understand whether they should anticipate his resistance against further retrovirus tests, to prepare for a possible oversight inquiry on top of the everyday operations of the Expedition, never mind the imminent risk of the Wraith's return to Lantea. Still, there were various options that didn't involve losing a valuable staffer, fighting with him or fighting their adversaries and the administration. "Let's not presume he's leaving or that he should, John. This conversation needs to focus on how we can work it out. Getting by _until_ he leaves is the last resort—"

A scream and shouting echoed up the back stairwell and from the gatrium.

Speakers and earpieces erupted, "Medical and security teams to the Gateroom transporter! Do not, repeat do NOT, use that transporter for access. In fact, control room, power down this unit. Somebody help me hold him…"

Weir nodded to the already in-action operations technician, and followed Sheppard already on his way toward the emergency one level down.

As they approached the referenced crisis just a few dozen total yards away, a two-person rapid response medical team was just approaching from the direction of the next closest intra-city transporter. The small gathered crowd parted for both sets of new arrivals; and the cause for alarm became graphically clear: At the base of a blood-smeared wall, on the floor of the open transporter, a cleanly dressed Marine and a wide-eyed engineer were cautiously cradling a bloodied and twitching Max Royce.

* * *

NOTES

1. PLAYLIST: _Theme from Harry's Game_ by Clannad (1982). See English translation of Irish Gaelic lyrics.

2. Spanish: "Yes, he's here with me…. No, he doesn't speak Spanish. Oh, no; pardon us. We are having an argument, true; but everything's fine. Thanks for your concern. I'm sorry we bothered you, Eddie."

3. Anthropologist who appeared in _Suspicion_ (SGA 1.05).

4. A British version of the US' "finger," it is a V symbol made with two fingers, palms facing inward. Look up "V sign" on Wikipedia.


	16. Day Twentythree continued

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

**

* * *

**

DAY TWENTY-THREE (cont.)

In his quarters, Evan Lorne stepped out of the shower, carefully cradling his plastic-bagged wrapped forearm. The rinse off had helped with his mood, but the several more weeks of protecting the arm brace from the elements were going to be a constant pain in the ass.

He was just toweling off when a stern voice spoke through the steam, "Major Lorne, sir, I need you to drop the towel, put your hands up and step out where we can see you."

Instinctively covering himself, he turned to see a three-man Marine team entering his bedroom, with weapons at the ready. The leader in the middle ordered another without looking away, "Corporal, bag the clothes that are on the floor and that towel; and then hand the Major something to put on."

"Sergeant, what the hell is going on?" demanded a nonetheless compliant Lorne, blushing in modesty and anger as one soldier stepped forward and carefully gathered up the discarded clothes and towel at the bathroom threshold.

"We have orders to seize evidence and take you into custody, sir. We would appreciate your cooperation."

"Evidence? Custody? For what?" The corporal passed him a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt, probably the first things handy in his dresser. "Thank you," he said out of sheer good upbringing.

"Colonel Sheppard didn't say, sir. But I'm guessing it's got something to do with the assault on Dr Royce."

* * *

Entering the interrogation room without giving the instantly upright subject a chance to speak, Atlantis' senior military officer clicked on a monitor that showed a figure on a bed, with medical staff and equipment all around him. The low sounds of urgent beeps and terse medical exchanges issued forth as well. Sheppard provided a less hurried voiceover, "Less than half an hour ago, Max Royce was found in the Gateroom transporter, beaten about the head, minutes after he left what witnesses report was a heated argument with you in his lab."

Lorne pried his thoughts and eyes from the gory scene on the monitor, and squelched the urge to dash to the Infirmary. "Sir, you don't really think…? Is he okay?"

Ignoring the second question, Sheppard continued to narrate the apparent chronology. "We couldn't raise you on the radio, and then found you cleaning yourself up… All of these events happening within minutes of one another."

On the monitor, the medical team continued to swarm around Royce, wiping off still more blood, tending to cardiac monitors and a slowly pumping artificial respirator, and moving another large piece of Ancient technology toward him.

Unable to look away again, the junior officer explained with no small anxiety in his voice. "Doc hasn't cleared me for strenuous activity; so rather than run off steam, I took the shower to literally cool off after our… disagreement."

Sheppard sat down on the table, almost blocking Lorne's view of the monitor. "I don't know that I want to know what you were fighting about, Evan; but this doesn't look good."

_It looks "domestic," is what you aren't saying for the benefit of the record. _For that same record, he applied all his military discipline to focus on explaining most of what had transpired in the lab. "I went to see if he wanted to grab lunch, when he told me that he was actually writing his resignation letter. I was trying to talk him out of it; he was adamant, and it got heated." He looked up at his commanding officer, "Sir, you've seen his temper; and Max and I have known each other long enough not to pull any punches—not literally, of course—when we talk." Leaning to look back toward the monitor, he pleaded, "Colonel, please; how is he?"

Sheppard shifted to improve the Major's sightlines, and stated the obvious, "Doctor Beckett is still working to stabilize him; I don't think he knows more. When I got there, it looked like someone had face-planted Royce into the transporter wall; his glasses were broken, one eye was swelling shut and he seemed to be convulsing. They neckbraced him and called for 'full cart' as they took him down to the Infirmary." He carefully watched Lorne's reactions to each detail, hoping not to see any telltale flicker of familiarity or satisfaction; he saw only surprise and pain. In fact, he could see anxious energies building up in his second-in-command; but, also sensed it was a growing desire to escape only to the Infirmary.

Realizing he was being watched, Lorne swallowed and tried to blink clear his watering eyes. He opened his palms toward the man perched on the table, who was not quite accusing him but not ready to release him either. "Sir, you can't honestly think I did this? You _know_ I wouldn't!"

Sheppard sat pokerfaced, sizing up his still damp and pajama'd XO.

Lorne looked at him, trying to think of some evidence he could offer to end this ridiculous delay in getting to Max. "The anthropologist… Um…," he snapped his fingers, trying to think through the adrenaline. "Corrigan! Corrigan saw me get into the transporter alone, _after _Maxhad already transported out. He can tell you that Max and I weren't in the booth together; and there's no way I could have materialized into the Gateroom booth if Max was already there. Check the transporter records; I went from the lab to my quarters. Somebody got to Max after he left the social sciences section!"

Sheppard impassively considered how that sequence of events wasn't inconsistent with what the anthropologist had just volunteered shakily in the next room; but he'd still have to check. But before he could act on that confirmation, or respond to Lorne, his earpiece called his attention back to the monitor.

On it Beckett had stepped clear from the calmer ministrations still being made to their newest patient, and was speaking into the air, "Dr Weir, Colonel Sheppard, I think I know what happened to Dr Royce."

* * *

The leadership team had gathered in the Infirmary, joined by Dr Heightmeyer and a freshly uniformed Major Lorne.

Beckett had waited on that last arrival, and nodded solemnly at him as he took up a position where he could see the physician as well as the curtained ICU bed. "It took us a while to stabilize him enough to do causal diagnostics; but it appears that Dr. Royce had a severe convulsive seizure as he rematerialized in the transporter on the Gateroom level. Both the Major and Dr Corrigan report that he was agitated, but physically fine when he entered the intra-City system near his lab. All of his injuries are consistent with a sudden and violent collapse in the booth; and I'd guess the physical evidence there will confirm that they were self-inflicted, so to speak."

Heightmeyer spoke from her own medical training and review of the subject's files, "He has no diagnosis or family history of epilepsy or other seizure disorders."

Weir guessed where the process of elimination was going. "You think it was the transporter? I understand it's made him ill before; but never anyone else, much less caused this kind of reaction."

"I'm fairly certain that it's not his locator chip implant,"(1) explained Beckett. "They don't carry anywhere near enough power to cause this type or severity of neurological interference. Rodney's taken a look and concluded that his chip specifically shows no indication of any malfunction or damage. Still, I've removed it, just to be safe.

"That leaves the sheer and improbable coincidence that he happened to be in the transporter when something else caused his episode; so I'm guessing it's somehow related to the transport experience itself."

McKay chimed in, "As soon as Sheppard's staff gathered their forensic evidence, I started Zelenka running a complete diagnostic of that particular booth and the overall system. So far it checks out as an entirely routine de-mat/re-mat sequence."

"But he did have headaches or nausea every time he used any of the alien technologies like beaming, transporters and Gate travel," observed Sheppard.

"Aye. The same reaction he had to the neuro-disruption of being tazed-"

"Yes, we've seen the video," Weir said flatly, knowing under any other circumstance it might have evoked a smile. But not now. "I know there were some initial safety concerns with each of these technologies, as they do interrupt nerve activity very briefly; but I'm not aware of any other unexpected reactions by any personnel or visitors over the past decade, never mind the Ancients for millennia before. You're sure this is connected?"

Nodding toward his friend and colleague, Beckett explained, "Rodney's teams are also checking sensor records for a wide variety of biological, mechanical and radiological anomalies at the time of the… accident. But barring that, Royce's own reaction pattern seems most plausible; he's been very consistent in responding to such stimuli."

"But he also seemed to be desensitizing to the use…"

"Or, the symptoms of the underlying problem were becoming less noticeable or pronounced through repetition."

"How is he?" interjected Lorne, who continued to sit still as the reports swirled around him.

"It was pretty bad; and his EEG is still all over the place. We've seen cardiac arrhythmia, erratic thermoregulation and myoclonic spasms; basically, all his autonomic systems went haywire. And we've provided him nearly every form of artificial life support there is. But, he's off the respirator now; and the symptoms seem to be diminishing." Beckett pointed to a scanner image loop that showed a fantastically colorful and active brain gradually slowing and dimming to more stable patterns.

"Again, I'm just not sure if it's actual improvement or just neuromuscular burnout. There's no sign of hemorrhaging, or other persisting physical cause or damage. So if he's in post-ictal—that is, post-seizure sleep, he should be coming to anytime now; and we can see if he follows the typical recovery pattern: confusion, nausea, headaches. You see the similarities to previous episodes… But this one was obviously much more significant; so I have to be honest, even if he is recovering," he said, glancing at the distant Lorne, "we have no idea what the long-term neurological repercussions will be."

"We know you're doing everything you can, Carson," assured Weir, for the benefit of both previous speakers. And for the benefit of everyone present, she inquired from her larger safety obligations, "Beyond all our concerns for Max, I can't help but wonder about the implications for anyone using the same systems that seem to have affected him?"

As McKay and Sheppard both paled at the suggestion, Beckett nodded—_not much of a break recently for the third busiest space in the City! _"My staff is looking through his test results now for any insights they can provide. It does seem that his nausea, vomiting and headaches were symptoms of his nervous system reacting more negatively to neural disruption than anyone had understood. But until we have a better idea of specifically what's happened, we have no way to know whether it's a larger issue with those technologies."

"Are you saying that the Gate and beaming and stuff—all that is actually dangerous?" asked Dex.

"No. I don't know," conceded Beckett. "But if so, this would have significant implications for current personnel exposure and for future personnel screening. Almost all our transportation, not to mention Wraith weapons, involves electrical if not physical, molecular disruption of the nervous system. If the issue here is in any way cumulative or specific to certain physiological structures, Royce could very well be an indicator of future problems."

"Wait a second," interjected Sheppard. "We've had SGC teams going through the Gate for nearly a decade; and, Hungary aside, Dr Royce has only been exposed for a few weeks."

"Which is why I doubt it's simply an at-large, additive reaction. But, if his sensitivity is something more than idiosyncratic, who knows how many other personnel are or might be at risk."

"You're thinking a health screening criterion like heart defects?" considered Weir.

"Basically, yes. If, and I do stress the 'if', we can determine what has made Max so sensitive, we'll want to check all current and potential personnel for the susceptibility, and safely send home any who share it."

That possibility hung among them tangibly. Almost everything about the Pegasus Expedition relied in some critical way on a technology that apparently might be slowly, or quickly, harming people. Wraith weapons were dangerous by definition; but being restricted to only mechanical transportation—stairs, jumpers and _304s_—would add crippling time and distance limitations on virtually every movement they made. The whole program was, after all, based on use of the Stargate.

"Carson, our next data burst to SGC is in a few minutes. I'll need to report this, of course; but if you'd like to include…"

"Aye, I'd like Dr Lam to take a look at the data; and it's prudent we give them the heads up about the technology correlation."

"Thank you. Let's get to it," nodded Weir.

The group broke up, with McKay in shock that his beloved technology might be life-threatening, Teyla and Ronon incredulous that the Ancients' creations could be harmful, and Sheppard and Weir rapidly developing language on how best to report that the whole basis for the Expedition—the entire Stargate program—could be lethal. Only Lorne didn't move, continuing to gaze vacantly toward a familiar back corner of the medical suite.

Heightmeyer approached him, speaking softly, "Major, I imagine this must be especially hard for you. Would you-?"

"No. No, thank you," he stated too quickly, before turning and giving her a grateful smile. "I'll just wait here, if that's OK with Doc."

Heightmeyer looked to Beckett, who nodded and headed their way. As she went to check on a likely still anxious anthropologist, the Chief of Medicine put his hand on Lorne's shoulder and invited, "I was about to check in with Dr Keller, who I called in early because of her neurology experience. Walk with me?"

Nodding and following silently, Lorne entered the crowded critical care space behind his guide. There, in exactly the same bed he'd recently vacated, lay Max, or rather some macabre caricature of him: Black straps crossed his wrists, ankles, chest and waist—stark against the pale sheets, gauze and skin. His bandaged head was tucked into a form-fitting foam cradle, and what little of his face was visible, was covered in bruises and scratches. His right eye was entirely obscured by a purplish welt; his left eye fluttered out of sync with the twitches of one finger. The respirator intubation had been replaced by an oxygen mask; but the artificial lungs sat ready nearby. Wires and tubes connected a wall of equipment to his arms, chest and head; the various connected monitors showed a mix of frantic and feeble measures.

"Fuck," Lorne blurted quietly, half-stepping forward, before crossing his arms anxiously for lack of anything more useful to do with them.

Keller looked up from the beside equipment, smiled weakly, and stepped over beside him, standing just close enough that they could feel one another's presence. As Beckett slipped away to forward the case info Earthward, she explained quietly, "The obvious injuries really aren't as bad as they look, Major. Most of the discoloration and swelling is from when he fainted into the wall or hit the floor; the bruises will always look worse as they heal." She pointed at one particular monitor, "The real issue is the brain activity, which is still more erratic than we'd like."

Lorne nodded unconfidently, as the big picture lying before them was more convincing and troubling than what was _not_ appearing on the little screen. He reached out tentatively, before pulling back and asking, "Is it OK…?"

"Of course," she smiled, guiding him to Royce's less plumbed left side. "I wouldn't touch his head; don't hold too tightly; and if he starts convulsing, it's best to just let go."

Evan took Max's non-IV'd hand in both of his, unsure how best to balance reassuring presence and harmful pressure. Almost immediately, the hand clenched him back; and he saw the mummy-like head try to turn toward him. "Doc!" he gasped, grinning despite himself, and stroking the weak grasp.

"Dr Beckett," Keller called calmly, facing away from the patient so as not to further alarm him.

"Max, I'm here; you're OK," assured Lorne with as much confidence as he could muster, as he leaned into Royce's monocular line of sight. "You had a fall of your own, and are in the Infirmary. I just need you to stay still, and rest. You're gonna be fine." He looked to Keller for some validation.

"Max, it's Dr Keller. Jennifer. Can you tell me how you feel?"

"Head," rasped Royce with what looked like a grimace spreading over the parts of his face that weren't immobilized by swelling and bandages. A groan and uneven squeeze of Lorne's hand suggested it was more than a random utterance; a louder cry and arching body left little question about the accuracy of the report.

Beckett stepped into the alcove, alongside the bed opposite Keller, and glanced from the struggling man to the scattered readouts. "It's probably a pain dump, as his systems wake up and report in all at once." Reaching for a tray of ready meds, he announced, "Let's try a quarter dose, until we get a better sense for how he responds."

Reacting to the voice and perhaps a quick glance in his subdued thrashing, Royce pulled away from Atlantis' head doctor, struggling feebly against the restraints and shouting, "No… Monster! 'Van?"

Feeling the desperation in the hand clutching his, Lorne tried to make sense of Max's reaction. Forcing himself to take a step back and see the whole scene, he considered how Max was experiencing his waking: With no memory of how he got there, he'd woken up in pain, strapped down, partially blind and now with Beckett, the archetypal physician he wouldn't forgive, standing over him with a syringe…

"Monster!"

"He's delirious," observed Beckett, trying to take hold of the dripline.

Stepping defensively closer, Lorne shouted the patient's possible perspective at Beckett over the competing sounds, "No; wait! He's still angry with you, and then wakes up to this… Maybe he thinks you're giving him the retrovirus, or— or something else to make him forget!" Evan knew it was an absurd suggestion; but he also knew that, however irrational it was, Max still angrily equated Beckett with mad science malpractice. Injured and cornered, Max could easily be operating from that sheer emotional reaction…

Not hearing the accusation, or not caring for an explanation at that moment, Beckett instructed, "You need to calm him down, Major. This will help with the pain, and keep him from injuring himself or setting off another seizure."

"Vee?" pleaded the patient, panicking at his situation and perhaps at his most familiar presence's hesitation to help him.

"Major," insisted Beckett.

Lorne looked among the three, finally resting on Keller, who nodded silently. He carefully increased his hold on Royce's arm and swore, "Prime, this is just to help with the pain. I promise I won't let anything happen to you; I'm right here. You're safe; I promise."

Confused, furious, agonized, breathless and hoarse, Royce had actually begun to sob soundlessly as he rocked in the restraints. Beckett finally was able to safely get to the IV port; and the drugs quickly imposed calm on the chaos. Royce slowly went limp; his grip on Lorne went slack; and the wild patterns of digital flashes and alarms also subsided.

Lorne backed away from the bed, anguished, as the doctors rechecked instruments, bandages and straps, comparing notes, "Not quite unconscious; but further than I'd have liked given his potential concussion."

"We could run a motor response battery; try to focus his semi-consciousness without exacerbating the pain?"

"Aye, but let's keep him off the painkillers as much as he can stand it..."

Satisfied that the physical priorities had been addressed, the two physicians looked at where the still stunned and now guilty soldier stood.

Not matching their eye contact, but sensing the shift in their attention, Lorne offered, "He doesn't, um… He doesn't sleep well on his back. If there's any way you can have him on his side, even a little, he'll rest better…" The last words were just whispered, as he turned and quickstepped from the room.

Keller looked to Beckett, who nodded after him. "I've got this."

She smiled appreciatively and moved toward the exit as the brogue behind her called out, "Mary, can ye bring a few pillows? Let's see if we can't make this a little more like home."

* * *

"Major Lorne? It's Dr Keller. Jennifer. Please? I know you're in there." She listened at Royce's door, convinced her knock and quiet introduction had not been for naught.

Nothing.

"Major, please? I'm here alone." She then realized she wasn't focusing on the right people. "It's about Max."

After a brief pause, the door opened onto a uniformed man walking quickly away, trying his best not to let her see him wiping his face. "I, uh… I dropped by, thinking I might bring him something familiar to wear or have handy, you know, to cheer him up. I'm not the musician he is, so I can't really-" Still facing away from her, he opened the dresser and flipped through the casual clothes contents. "He has the best t-shirts…"

"I'm sure he'll appreciate that," she agreed, as he continued to rummage through the same drawer repeatedly. Standing calmly just inside the closed door, she interrupted his nervous busymaking, "Evan, how long have you and Max been together?"

He stopped short, and looked up at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. His wide eyes were clearly red in more than shock, and with a worry for much more than himself.

She saved him a response by continuing, "He loves you very much."

For a moment, he just continued his frozen stare at her, as a decades-old dilemma flashed through his mind: honesty or security? As he realized that this was _the _moment he had both feared and yet somehow yearned for through the years—the hypothetical but inevitable day when a work colleague, as opposed to a stranger, friend or family member, called the question about his relationship with Max.

_Now_ was the instant he had to choose whether to protect his career and deny his love, or to confidently own his feelings. "Espouse us or expose us?" was the phrase Max had used when they'd talked about this possibility, when Max had refused to tell him how to answer, had trusted him to do what was right in the moment. Cautious as he was on their behalf, Max had always trusted Evan to do what was needed to protect the job he loved, which was to protect those he loved. That's what soldiers did.

And yet that warrior stood here silent and frightened at the simple but powerful question this physician had posed. _What did she mean by it? _After her barely subtle suggestions at his first dinner back, _What else could she have meant?,_ he corrected himself. There was no alternative explanation, no way around it any more; he had to choose whether to trust Max, himself and her.

But even if he was ready to share, even though she had asked, was Keller worthy of that trust? She had already held his life in her hands; with her coworkers, she currently held Max's. Would knowing the truth make her any less attentive or thorough? No, her and the entire medical team's professionalism was beyond reproach. But what did he know of her as a person?

Still, she could easily have voiced her suspicions earlier, in the Infirmary, in front of everyone; but she'd come here, privately, to ask. And even if more somber than usual, she still had that genuinely friendly curious air about her. She wasn't digging for dirt; she was concerned. She cared. About him. Or Max. Maybe even them together.

Seeing that her consoling expression had not changed as he deliberated, Evan let his eyes and shoulders drop, and clenched the shirt he held—trusting, choosing, committing. "I love him too; and look what it's gotten him…"

Jennifer didn't react immediately. She had come to offer some comfort, some friendly understanding; but she wasn't yet friends with Evan. To date, the Major had really just been charts and stories to her; she knew him more as patient, or through his partner. So, feeling she knew Max much better than this man, she decided it more appropriate to sit on the former's bed and let the latter indicate what support he wanted or needed from her.

"Almost half my life," Evan answered her initial question belatedly, as he selected the "Pirate Alphabet" shirt, and joined Jennifer on the bed. "I didn't realize he'd told you."

Her "He didn't" elicited another shocked expression. This one she reassured, "I sort of figured it out based on how concerned and devoted he was to you. I'm kinda bright, you know." She smiled and elbowed him gently to drive home her friendly intent.

"_That_ he told me," he complimented, turning the shirt over to show her the punchline back panel: I C & R.(2)

She chuckled at the only-a-linguist pun fashion statement. "I didn't mean to shock or scare you. But I could see how much it pained him to see you hurt; I can only imagine how hard that must be for you now, especially the pressure not to show it. I'm sorry."

He smiled in appreciation for her empathy, and shrugged at the long-accepted reality of his relationship.

She decided to focus on something more positive. "He told me that you met camping?"

"Yeah, just after high school." Evan smiled, remembering that, "Right off the bat, I thought he was the most insightful, funny, amazing person I'd ever met; he was instantly my best friend. I even found myself finding reasons to go see him. Like, I'm not a big breakfast eater; but I spent most mornings that whole first summer going to the restaurant where he worked after my overnight shift parking cars at one of the fancy San Francisco hotels..."

He gently refolded the shirt, and the comforting memories poured out of him through this first full breach in the professional wall. "It was several years and a lot of self-struggle before I realized that he was more than just a great friend, that I was actually in love with him." His voice caught as he smoothed the memento on his lap, "And I am nothing but lucky that he felt the same way."

Jennifer leaned against him and offered her hand to help him occupy his. "Tell me about him?"

Accustomed to actually withholding insights about himself and his relationship, Lorne just stared at her for a moment. But today, here and after everything that had happened in the past weeks, his inability to talk with his partner made talking _about_ him seem an incredibly attractive relief. He'd already said more than enough to end two careers; anything more would just be icing on that eventual cake, but it might make this moment less bitter…

So, sensing nothing but generous concern from this insightful new friend and colleague, he took a deep breath and tried to decide where to begin. "Um, well, he's always been the really outgoing one. Through high school, before we met, I was more the quiet type; I guess you could say he helped me find my inner sarcasm. And he helped me make the adjustment into the military, to make the most of the travel and training it offered, to try the new and exciting and the scary too." He pointed to the exotic location photos on the wall among those of friends and family members. "…Everything I needed to settle into my career, and to get invited to join Stargate; I owe it all to him."

"From how often he came to see you, how long he stayed, how he sang and talked to you… I get the sense he didn't feel it was just a one-way road," Jennifer reminded. "I've seen many a bedside vigil; and I can't think of many that have been that creative or consistent, even with all the discretion he obviously tried to show."

Evan nodded, "That would be him too. Loyal to a fault, but also practical. Protecting us— or really not outing me has been his duty all these years, despite what that's meant for him, both in success and failure. He's struggled with it here, I know, with everything that's happened. God knows he'll be one hell of an overprotective parent…"

"You want kids?"

"Oh yeah," he grinned with absolute conviction. "He especially is _so_ good with them; and they love him, our nephews above all." He pointed at the grinning photo, before sighing again, "But that's another thing he's been willing to put on hold for me. He's been so patient and generous, letting the demands of my career shape what we could have. And now… Now, I pulled him further into it—across light years, so he could think me dead, watch me lie in a hospital bed, get hit on by a Wraith, and now take his turn at death's door."

"Evan, you didn't do any of that to him; it just happened. You couldn't have known."

"But I suggested him to Stargate Command, to help with the alien translation work. I knew he could help; and some part of me kind of hoped he'd get looped in, that we'd have one less barrier between us. Or maybe he'd even join the project, and we'd get to see each other more often." He laughed on realizing he'd gotten exactly that, just not as he'd imagined it. "If I hadn't dropped his name to Jackson…"

"It doesn't sound like you two have ever had an easy time of it; space aliens and stargates are just the latest challenge… I'm still working on _having_ a relationship, much less managing it like you've had to all these years."

"It's not all bad, obviously," he clarified. "We do have a few—very few—close friends who know, and my family. They were the first people we told, and that was just a couple of years ago…"

_

* * *

_

Early 2003

"_NO! Not eat!" screeched the little voice as it careened from the kitchen into the next room._

"_I've got him," volunteered Max, placing the tippy cup back on the table, and dropping his napkin onto his seat. "You two finish _your_ vegetables." He lumbered noisily into the den, saying something in a language that neither of them recognized, except the single word "Coop." A universally understood squeal of delight followed as the larger person swooped down on a spot beyond the oversized couch, and made a mix of exaggerated chomping sounds._

_Evan smiled and finished his iced tea, which the woman beside him immediately refilled, as they sat over their own largely emptied plates._

_"He's so good with Cooper," Natalie observed, "I asked him if he wouldn't give up a life of international teaching and translating for a glamorous career as my manny. With the best-friend-of-my-brother discount, we might be able to afford him; and Coop'll be cussing in lots of languages before most kids can form a complete sentence in one."_

_On the den floor across from them, the tantrum and tickling had transformed into a tell-me-the-facial-feature game, in three languages and counting. "Da; khorashaw. Ee ehta?"_

_"He comes up for dinner or a playdate at least one a month, more if he's flying in and out. Good job, funny in several languages, loved by children-I can't believe no one's snatched him up. Or at least no one he's mentioned."_

_"Have you asked him?" asked Evan, himself curious about how Max would answer._

_"Regularly. And for an expert in languages, he's remarkably bad at giving a clear answer to that simple question. It's not like I have a problem with the 'gay' thing. I mean, we've rated eye candy together for years; he's got pretty good taste…"_

_"I should have guessed that you two would have bonded over boy watching," laughed the brother at his sister who never grew up._

_"_Men_; we window shop _men_," she corrected with playful offense. "And, before you ask, Peter knows that I'm only looking; I'm shopping for Max. And speaking of… what about you, world traveler? In between these top secret missions, no opportunity for family-making of your own?"_

_"Nats!"_

_"Don't be so sensitive, Spansky. It's my duty as the little sister to be nosy and inappropriately frank. I can't wait to see your reaction when I ask something more literally sexual."_

_The blush faded as he dragged a carrot stick around his plate. "You know I've just focused on the career, on flying. And now, well let's just say my duty station doesn't leave much opportunity for a social life."_

_"Bravo," Natalie mocked, with an equally patronizing golf clap. "Do you two use the same writer?" she asked, nodding to the pleasantly quiet den. "That's Max's line almost word for word."_

_Evan pursed his lips and shrugged with his hands, not knowing how to respond._

_"Ev," interrupted his sister, putting a hand on his arm. "I don't mean to harp; I just want all the great guys in my life to be happy. You deserve it."_

_He looked past her to where Max had launched the little boy into superhero flights around the coffee table. Reciprocating a giggling hug from his dizzy passenger, Max looked over and caught Evan's observation, smiling contentedly as the mighty mite demanded another circuit. Evan couldn't help but take joy at the simple, giddy scene of his favorite tow- and ginger-heads at play. "Natalie…" he said, without looking back at her._

"_Speak, big man," she said, stretching to reach the plates across the table. "My two-year old is more eloquent than you tonight."_

"_Natalie, Max and I are kind of… together. We have been for a while," he blurted._

_The petite woman slapped the table with an explosive energy, and did a happy dance in her seat, "Ha ha! I knew it!" Max and the toddler looked up, alarmed at the outburst, as Natalie gloated, "Your brother-in-law owes me a nice dinner out." Evan looked even more taken aback, as she grabbed his face with both hands and gave him an exaggerated, if heartfelt, kiss on the forehead. "Well, it has certainly taken you enough time and increasingly less subtle hints to tell me."_

_"It's complicated, sis," admitted the Air Force officer, sitting almost at attention in disbelieving relief at having finally given voice to his relationship. "Military regs aside, you know I'm rarely around. We've struggled with how to be fair to one another, much less who and how to trust."_

_"And now I can help with that," she smiled sincerely. "Even if I have to promise not to wear my 'I'm in the inner circle' t-shirt in public, my lips are sealed. Besides it's none of Uncle Sam's business who you love, or boink."_

_Evan's eyes flew wide, and Natalie's matched them quickly and mockingly. They looked over to see the tyke oblivious to these other adults much less their conversation; he now was sitting in his uncle's lap, forcefully instructing him to read and re-read a favorite page from his favorite picture book._

_"I'm happy for you both… Just don't eff it up," she added. "He's a good man, Spansky; and he's got a good one." She took his hand and leaned in to tap her dark head against his. "And it's nice to know that Coop and his younger sibling will have a genuine _couple_ of funny uncles…"_

_Evan blushed at her continued gush about him and Max, before realizing the full meaning of her statement._

_Natalie looked expectantly at him, as he computed. "Thick-headed penetration in three… two… one."_

_With an energetic shout, Evan jumped up from his chair, throwing his arms over his head before gathering his baby sister into a wild, then overly-gentle hug and announcing, "Prime, we're gonna be uncles. Again!"_

* * *

Jennifer couldn't help but laugh at the goofy, happy smile that had overtaken Evan's face in the telling. "Sounds like they're very lucky boys, to have such a loving family. Present company included."

"Let's just say there are multiple parties who'd be disappointed if I don't get Max home in one piece," he grimaced. "But even _when_ he recovers, that doesn't resolve anything else here. He's still upset trying to decide whether to resign and file a complaint over the Wraith experiment. Our last conversation ended in a fight over the fact that I indirectly volunteered to join the siege defense here earlier this year. And, now he probably thinks I've helped Beckett inject him with some genetic elixir, when I should have been protecting him…"

She watched the guilt, frustration, hurt and self-doubt rising in him. When he began knotting and kneading the shirt absentmindedly, she reached over and took his hands entirely.

He turned to look at her, his face wrinkled with worry and indecision. "Maybe all this is a message from the universe that I should resign, should get me and Max out of all this danger and drama. We could go back to the house in Monterey, finally live without the secrets, start our family, and let that and his career be our focus for a while…"

"You should do what you think is best, for both of you; but you don't need to decide quite yet," Jennifer reassured. "And I hope you'll consider that you'd both be missed here. I agree that Max is amazing; I'm really just getting to know you; and I know at least one other person who'd be _very_ disappointed if you were to go: Laura Cadman."

"_Lieutenant_ Cadman?"

"Max might be the really outgoing half; but you haven't gone unnoticed among certain circles here in Atlantis," she laughed knowingly. "In more than a few ladies' night chats, she's suggested Max and I should round out an interdivisional quartet with you one movie night: Air Force, Marines, sciences and medicine..."

Effectively distracted from his career crossroads, Evan shook his head, recalling, "I thought she and Dr Beckett were sort of an item, ever since the body-swapping incident."(3) Jennifer shook her head as he realized, "Wait, why Max?"

A guilty look passed over her face. "Let's just say that Laura wasn't the first girl to fall for an already taken fella…" Her squished expression faded into a smile, as she made a confession of her own this late afternoon. "Early on, I kind of hoped Max was hanging out in the Infirmary to see more than you…"

She shrugged as they shared an honest laugh at the common crush. "Let's go take him this shirt," she said, standing and gesturing toward the door, "before you worry-rend it to pieces; and so he has a familiar face handy when he comes to."

"Jennifer?" he asked, taking her hand.

"Don't worry, Evan; your secret is safe with me."

"I was going to say, thank you. Again. For everything."

"My pleasure," she squeezed back. "I'll help you handle Cadman too, if you help me find a nice man of my own. You've obviously got good taste; and goodness knows, I'll need all the help I can get, even in this transgalactic boarding school we work in."

* * *

**Text Notes**

1. Subdermal beacons implanted on all SGC personnel, to improve capability to track and lock onto them with Asgard beaming technology. First issued to SG-1 just prior to _Off the Grid_ (SG1 9.16).

2. I (aye), C (sea) and R (arrrr!), of course.

3. Technically, body-sharing with McKay in _Duet_ (SGA 2.04).


	17. Day Twentysix

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-SIX**

Weir and Sheppard stood watching the security feed from the Infirmary, as Royce batted away and then accepted Lorne's help dressing as he gripped his still bandaged head. Though they couldn't hear what was being said as the two men smiled and laughed, their familiar ease with one another was clear.

"I'm probably supposed to take some official action right now," said the senior military officer as he turned quickly away from the screen. "And, though Royce won't give me any credit for this mercy, I don't want to lose Lorne's skills or experience. Especially not now."

Joining him at the desk, Weir corrected him, "They're _both_ good men, John; good for each other and for us. In fact, the more I sit with it, the more I see that Max was right."

"You don't think pursuing the retrovirus was a good idea?" Sheppard looked at her in complete surprise. "Elizabeth, except the need for a better back story, it was working."

"Exactly. I know Royce feels the experimentation was of questionable ethic; perhaps so. But it was necessary."

"Then what's he right about?"

"We neglected to prepare for our own success. We created and loosed a brand new person into a pre-existing community, and got caught in our inability to maintain that false relationship. The treatment worked; our theatre didn't."

"So you think we should try again."

"If we have the opportunity…," she nodded. "The basics are still sound; we just need to come up with a better and sustainable second act for the affected Wraith. Or even convince them to take it voluntarily, and handle the adjustment themselves…"

Sheppard shot her a quick "as if" look when there was a knock at the door.

Weir clicked off the video feed and beckoned their Chief of Medicine in with his update.

"Colonel, Elizabeth," he nodded wearily, as Weir waved him into the other guest chair. Nodding to the screen on which he surmised they'd just seen him leave the Infirmary and their meeting's subject, he reported, "He seems to be doing okay; the only apparent lasting effect is a low grade headache and some short memory loss immediately surrounding the seizure—I'm talking minutes," he clarified, knowing they all wondered whether at least one member of the Expedition might be able to forget the whole Michael incident. No such luck.

"Still, even if the continuing tests don't show anything, for his own safety, I'm declaring him medically unfit. He is barred from any off-world and all hazardous duty, is prohibited from using or being around any neural disruptive technologies here in the City, and is to be mechanically transported to the _Daedalus_ for return to Earth as soon as possible."

Weir and Sheppard both looked at him, more than a little surprised by the severity of the prescription.

Beckett nodded his confidence in the extreme measure, "I hate to do it, truly; but we still can't explain what makes him so sensitive to the neural disruption. Though it seems he's the one in a trillion to have that unique characteristic, the threat remains for him that most any nervous system interruption could bring on another, and likely worse, episode. And the possibilities—the probabilities here in Atlantis are just too great."

"Have you told him?" asked Weir, knowing that none of them was among Royce's favorite people since Michael.

"No," the Scotsman shook his head and massaged his own weary neck. "With everything else he blames me for, I don't know how he'll take this latest news. And I don't want to introduce any even potential stress until he's a little stronger. But it's not a negotiation; it's just a matter of when."

"What if he's allergic to hyperspace travel now too?" asked Sheppard, genuinely concerned for someone whose safety was still his responsibility.

"Not quite the same, but certainly still a slight risk. But it's that or permanent Pegasus residence… And he'll certainly be safer back on Earth."

Weir digested the news, noting, "With a Wraith reaction likely, I imagine the _Daedalus_ will remain on station here for our defense for some time. We don't know when the next return trip will be…"

* * *

**DAY TWENTY-EIGHT**

"I understand," nodded Royce nonchalantly, not needing to point out that the ship would have been able to make its normal return trip if a certain Wraith informant hadn't escaped with knowledge of the City's continued existence, if he hadn't been created and betrayed in the first place. "So what will we do with me in the meanwhile? If I can't gate home or anywhere else for that matter, and Beckett says I can't stay here or risk getting stuck offworld with no jumper…"

"You made a very positive impression on the Athosians," reminded Weir. "We were thinking that perhaps Teyla will allow you to take up residence with her people on the mainland until the next Earth run. No Gate or transporters, and hopefully no stunners. They liked having you before; and if I recall correctly, I believe you enjoy camping?"

Continuing his merely civil interaction, he did not acknowledge or reciprocate her smile. One good and one still swollen eye stared at her dispassionately, "And if I still want to resign rather than-?"

"It won't change your exposure restrictions, and per your contract, you may lose even the possibility for disability payout should anything else happen. This way, it's on-the-job circumstance, not your decision or performance; and so all IOA obligations hold until and beyond your return to Earth."

Royce wondered about Sheppard's thoughts on this exit; but Weir had made this a one-on-one, executive personnel meeting. He hadn't had guards or apparent monitoring since he'd been released from the Infirmary. In fact, with the exception of the most senior leadership, every other member of the Expedition had treated him with the same friendly concern he would have expected from them, and offered to them were the circumstances reversed. Dex, Emmagan, Beckett and Sheppard had been somewhat scarce, whatever message that held. To her credit, Weir had checked in on him dutifully even before this meeting. But only Rodney had been genuinely involved, stopping by after Evan and Jennifer got him settled back into his quarters. McKay claimed that it was actually interest on some translation assignments that Royce failed to complete. While unconscious…

Speaking of work, Royce supposed, "As I'll be on the clock in the meanwhile, I assume you'll want to me continue with my projects in the hopes they help find some humane way to end the conflict."

"I would certainly understand if you want to take it easy; but you aren't required to stop working. Max, please don't take this as a judgment on your skills or your contribution to this team. Honestly, I would rather you could remain here, and as an active, ongoing member of the Expedition; but it's Carson's call, and Dr Lam at SGC concurs."

"Well then, for my own good, I suppose a jumper ride to the mainland, to a largely pre-electrical settlement brimming with well-traveled Pegasus Galaxy experts sounds like a pretty good transition toward intergalactic retirement."

She wasn't sure whether he was being serious or sarcastic. Probably both.

"If the Athosians will have me, perhaps I could take the Sunday morning jumper over? That will give them a few days to prepare, and me a few to pack."

Weir nodded and typed, "I'll let the quartermaster know to expect you and your luggage." To-do item noted, she looked back to him, wanting to broach—

"Will there be anything else?" he asked abruptly, suggesting the answer he wanted.

She looked up at him, part of her wishing she could find some hint of anger under his detachment, something she could react to, or defend herself against. But his bruised chill betrayed no resentment or condescension, just an absolute if slightly stiff readiness to move along. For his fabled temper, he could also be a very cool diplomat when he wanted to be. "No, not right now."

She'd barely finished the last syllable when he stood, and casually but quickly made his exit. She noticed that he stopped and talked amicably with a few of the technicians on duty in the Control Room; but if he meant to highlight the differing treatment they received, he gave no indication beyond laughing with one and heading toward the side stairs without giving her another glance.

Neither the SGC nor the IOA had yet responded directly to her report on the "Michael incident;" the latter had not even acknowledged its receipt. If any of her decisions in that sequence had been mistakes, it would probably be a while before she heard so from the bureaucrats. But more immediately, one cost of those decisions was that a vocal slice of the Expedition's conscience had just walked out of her office, likely for good. And somewhere out there in the Pegasus Galaxy, another hand of judgment was likely heading toward her city. And it had a feeding slit, a grudge to bear and a large number of like-minded relations. If the past month had been challenging…

* * *

Max rested against Evan as they took advantage of a few quiet moments between initial packing and more medical testing for the scientist, and an increasingly normal work schedule for the recovering soldier. They hadn't spoken in several minutes, each savoring the quiet connection, especially given everything that had happened in the past days, and the farewell they now knew was looming. While not happy at the cause or consequences of the "allergy" as it was being called, neither minded making time for one another because of it.

Max shifted suddenly, reacting to a fierce throb of the headache that had too slowly been fading through the post-seizure days.

"You OK?" started Evan, still not accustomed to having Max in need of recuperative care, much less being present to offer it himself.

"Well enough…" Max focused his attention elsewhere, playing with the fasteners on the splinted arm wrapped around him, and with the fingers that reached out each time his hand came near.

Gently catching a thumb that strayed too close, and nuzzling a flourish of red hair near his chin, Evan noted the underlying odor of ointment and gauze that Max's vanity cap couldn't mask. Injured, medicated, bandaged–not how he thought of Max, not how we wanted to. "Wanna talk about it?"

Too weary to resist as he had in their last significant discussion, Max sighed, "This isn't how I imagined my departure…"

"Lacking the flourish of righteous indignation you'd hoped for?" Evan joked, with a gentle jostle and a grin. "You _are _a drama queen."

"Ha, ha."

"Well, on the bright side, at least this has made everyone forget about the Budapest video…"

"I was going for _lack_ of notoriety, not a different kind," reminded Max. "Getting noticed has never done us any good."

That other, older harsh reality hung over them for a moment, before Evan took a deep breath and suggested sweeping it away. "What if getting noticed didn't have to matter any more?"

"Did you take one of my pain pills?"

"No," Evan chuckled, grateful for the light entrance to a heavier suggestion. "I was thinking, that maybe we should _both_ go somewhere where we didn't have to hide."

"Regardless of how accepting the Athosians may or may not be, your joining me on the mainland 'til my ride comes would hardly _avoid_ suspicion…"

Not surprised at the selfless lack of thinking outside the box, Evan kissed the stubborn head beside him and whispered, "I meant, what if I headed back to Earth with you, for good?"

With only a split-second's delay in computing the full meaning of the proposal, Max bolted up on the bed in surprise and disapproval. But his look of shock and disagreement quickly faded into a grimace; grabbing his head, he nearly let momentum keep him going over the edge and toward the floor.

Never really letting go, and expecting the suggestion to get some energetic response, Evan reacted almost simultaneously. He closed his fist around as much of Max's shirt as the splint allowed, letting Max's movement pull him upright. With the better leverage of the sitting position, he pulled Max back toward him.

As Evan rolled him down onto, rather than off of, the bed, Max reassured, "Just a head rush; I'm fine. I sat up too quickly…"

Trusting Max wasn't making light of his actual condition, but still nervous about this novel, fragile Max, Evan watched him closely for any further sign of infirmity. After a minute or so with no apparent relapse, Evan finally eased down behind him, and began gently running his thumb up and down Max's spine. The simple gesture calmed and comforted their rowdy nephews at bedtime; and he hoped the soothing repetition might do the same for this excitable extrovert.

He continued, watching as the discomfort gradually melted from Max's face, as Max slowly unfurled into a more comfortable position, and waited for a signal that it was OK to renew the conversation.

Finally, Max asked, "Were you serious about coming back to Earth?"

"I haven't resigned yet, if that's what you're asking. I'm placing all the options on the table, so we can talk them through together …"

"I remember that part of our argument, Vee. Thanks for exploring, rather than announcing…"

Still stroking Max's back, Evan posed it again. "So, what do you think?"

"I would _love_ to have you back, permanently."

"But?"

Max sighed, and laced his legs into Evan's to offset his next honesty. "But, feeling you ought to be there with me, is very different than no longer wanting to be here; you can't go for guilt. And nothing back home will come close to the excitement and impact of this place. You'll be bored, have regrets and maybe even get resentful…"

Evan knew Max wasn't being judgmental; and he couldn't argue against the possibility.

"Besides, everyone loves you here; and no secret I think this place needs all the ethical voices it can get. And you've only got another year before you're eligible for advancement," Max reminded him about the larger career, the lifework, beyond this particular tour. And even more importantly that all the external factors, he asked, "Honestly, verily, big picture—where do you _want_ to be?"

Evan didn't have to search his feelings; he knew his answer just as immediately as he knew its impossibility. "With you. Here."

Max's lips curled in a slight smile, entirely unsurprised by his love's genuine desire to have his cake and eat it too. Evan's passions and sense of duty were sincere and absolute, not simple. "Being with you has always been easy; _getting _to be with you remains the problem. So, Atlantis obviously isn't the seaside property we were meant to share into next week, much less retirement."

"You just listed reasons why I should stay…"

"I meant," Max corrected in a slow whisper, "we've never had to be in the same place, to be together. I trust that, and want you happy."

Once again, it seemed Max wouldn't make Evan's decision for him, would accept being OK with whatever worked best for Evan. Generous, supportive and exasperating as always. Even under duress and doctor's care, Max's resolve didn't waver.

"Max?" Evan whispered, intending to thank him for the confidence, and to ask him for some additional input on the impossible choice.

But there was no answer.

He leaned over to see Max's eyes closed, his battered face entirely relaxed, his breathing steady. Despite the importance of their conversation, the familiar presence and weakened state had lulled Max into a needed sleep. Further evidence he trusted, and even expected, Evan to reach his own conclusion.

Evan smiled, and ran his fingers carefully over Max's cheek, cherishing the chance to observe the rarely still Max, and suddenly conscious again of how close he'd come to losing him. Evan had seen some horrific things in his life; as a combat pilot and soldier, he'd even caused significant harm to people, and other creatures, almost all of whom richly deserved it. But he couldn't remember anything that had troubled him so fundamentally, so absolutely, as having Max injured within his reach but beyond his ability to help—and at least indirectly because of his actions.

In reflecting on their nearly two decades of knowing each other, he realized he had never before seen Max ill or injured, one abusive ex and a few younger year hangovers aside. Max had, of course, been sick occasionally; but Evan had always been away, unable to nurse him through or sometimes even to know about the ailment.

Still more honestly, Evan had missed virtually every notable moment in Max's life. And though he knew Max to be unhappy about it on more than occasion, he hadn't complained once since they'd agreed they were a couple. As with so many other aspects of Evan, Max had understood the military calling, and had repeatedly assured him that he was worth a little sacrifice.

And for all these reasons, he wanted to be with Max. Through this recovery, and the everyday life hiccups. For the good times too: settling into daily routines together; having the days, weeks or more together that weren't always a countdown to goodbye; and raising the cousins they'd promised Coop and Pate. Into a shared future, full stop.

But always insightful Max had been right about Evan's also wanting to stay in Atlantis, about not wanting to be Earthside for its own sake. He didn't share the vehemence of Max's judgment about the retroviral experimentation; in fact, he knew there was much important and unpleasant work to be done here in Pegasus—stopping the Wraith and supporting the scientific exploration. Beyond the importance of the mission, Max knew him well enough to understand that for Evan there was no going back from the excitement of the experience itself. Just flying fighter jets would seem so bland in comparison to the mix of alien worlds and starships he navigated now; the desk duty of the past week had been boring enough—at least for now, commercial piloting or other civilian work slowly suck the life out of him as surely as any Wraith might.

They were both clear that Evan didn't want to leave; he couldn't. This was exactly the type of adventure with a good purpose he'd sought since childhood; this service was what he'd explained to Max that first night on the beach, only on a scale that neither could have imagined then. With Max he was complete; here he was alive. In his heart and mind, his commitment to both was not a statement about his dedication to either. And thankfully, apparently, Max understood that paradox without judging too harshly.

So, if he wouldn't leave, and Max couldn't stay, they were right back to where they'd always been—unable to be together. Come Sunday morning, or at latest when the _Daedalus_ finally headed back to Earth, they would again have to say goodbye—in hiding, just like they had so many times before. Except that Max would now know where he was and what he was doing, nothing else had changed in this painful pattern of an otherwise amazing relationship—nothing since they'd committed to being… well, "committed" back on that park bench in Oxford. They had no more plan than when Evan had confessed his feelings on that rooftop in San Francisco.

And more than a decade later, that man was still beside him, in so many different ways. Their relationship meant even more to Evan now than at either of those earlier steps; Max deserved so much better. And so Evan realized that if the situation wouldn't change, the relationship needed to…

_But, how to pull it off?_ There wasn't much time. In the next few days, Max would be packing, and had already announced his intention to have some people over for a final Friday dinner. There was already talk among the scientists and soldiers about a surprise sendoff for the universally known linguist. And, anxious to get back to work, Evan himself had already volunteered to accompany a trading team to Croya(1) on Saturday. Parties, markets and people—somewhere in that mix was just what he needed—what _they _needed.

Settling in against his fabulous, forgiving love, Evan reached over and slid his hand into Max's. _Promise._

* * *

**DAY THIRTY, FRIDAY**

The door before McKay opened to a smartly dressed, and only slightly bandaged, Royce standing in a dimly lit room. Behind him a formally clothed table sat complete with flowers, candles, and what looked like a bottle of wine.

The Head of Sciences tried to stick to his visit's purpose, "I didn't think you were leaving for the mainland until Sunday; but when I swung by your lab, I see that you've already cleaned it out." Glancing at the table with a suggestive flash of the eyebrows, he couldn't help but stick his nose in, "Date night? Hope I'm not interrupting…" He looked about the interior room, not sure whether or not he hoped he was. His eyes suddenly flew wide, "Or expected."

"Shabbat begins tonight, Rodney. I packed my lab today before the Sabbath, and am preparing for prayers." He bowed his head to point out the yarmulke he was wearing. "I'm expecting several people; you're welcome to join us for kiddush and the meal."

"Well, I don't know about the…"

Royce stepped aside, and gestured the unexpected guest in warmly.

"Meal? Ok; maybe just for a minute," agreed a now curious McKay, stepping in, scanning again for any one else and quickly bee-lining for the nervous energy-absorbing bookshelf and wall hangings.

As his boss made himself at home amidst his personal life, Royce chuckled and resumed his preparation for the evening prayer and farewell meal. "You said you swung by my lab; was there something you needed? I'd really prefer to wrap up any shoptalk before sunset…"

"Hmm?" McKay glanced up from a close examination of the diplomas and photos. "Oh, I just wondered if you'd finished indexing the science directories in the Ancient database? Until they can find some replacement for you, or you finish your translation software, Radek will need all the help he can get with searches…"

"You'll do fine," Royce corrected as he placed a few dinner rolls into a basket and draped an embroidered cloth over them. "I'm sorry my reviews of the Meerux logs and the Lantean database haven't provided any additional insights into making the SAWgate technology operable."

"Well, that's not going to stop everyone from expecting me to make it work magically the first time it could come in handy. With my luck, it'll be the next mission…"

"I'm sure you'll come up with something, Rodney. Perhaps two-way or Max-safe wormholes?"

"Thanks; we'll see." McKay hesitated, set down the photo he'd been looking at, and finally just blurted out his visit's ulterior message, "Look, Max, I also came by to say that I'm really sorry that you're not gonna be able to stay on. I appreciate… most of what you've done while here; and hope you'll consider continuing to consult on projects, even from back home. We've been working on ways to tele-share some work, via Stargate Command. I mean, just think about it."

Royce had walked back over to him as he gushed, hands in his pockets as he just absorbed the scientist's latest attempt at human connection, perhaps even friendship. When that well was finally dry, he said simply, "Thank you, Rodney; the interest and appreciation really mean a lot coming from someone of your skill and stature."

McKay blushed, smirked and waved him off demurely.

"Especially because you're an absolute ass," Royce continued in the same heartfelt tone. "One of the worst supervisors I've ever had, on any continent or planet."

While perhaps not entirely surprised at the assessment, McKay looked absolutely wounded that Royce would actually say so.

Royce put his hand on McKay's shoulder, and offered, "But you can care deeply about your people, in your own special way. And you're bloody brilliant at what you do. So when I'm on the mainland and then back on Earth, I'll take great comfort in the fact that you'll be here. Fighting the good fight for us. Here." He punctuated the compliment with a hardy slap on the arm, and walked toward the chiming door.

"Ouch," smarted McKay. "I'll have you know, I caught the backhanded message in there…"

"Don't make me deck you again; it's supposed to be a day of rest…," Royce smiled over his shoulder as the door slid open. "Donald, Jenn, good shabbos; welcome."

He ushered in the first two guests, taking the parcels they carried and nodding toward the physicist. "Donald Friedman, Jennifer Keller, have you met Rodney McKay?"

"Hello, Rodney," smiled Keller, as they all shook hands. "Donald and I are on C-shift in the Infirmary."

McKay cleared his throat, trying to gracefully cough up some nonchalance. "Yes. Hello. I believe I've seen you both there. Not that I was looking for you there. Or anywhere. Not that it wouldn't be nice to see you. Professionally. Not that I'd want to be sick or injured, mind you." He stuck his hand out again. "I'm Head of Sciences. Max, you said there's a meal?" he fidgeted, looking around desperately for his host, who was welcoming a few more guests.

"It's a potluck," Keller nodded to the dishes Lorne and the other new arrivals had brought. "Or Dining Hall leftovers I guess."

McKay patted his pockets nervously, as if he needed to confirm that he hadn't actually brought anything.

Royce walked over to him, handed him a scrap of fabric with which to cover his head and smiled. "Don't worry about it, Rodney; you can still stay. An extra mitzvah for the rest of us, feeding your sorry self."

* * *

**NOTES**

1. Village on M2S-181 whose market will feature in Teyla finding her missing people in _The Kindred, Part 1 _(SGA 4.18).


	18. Day ThirtyOne

**Too Much To Pretend**

by Mirwalker

* * *

**DAY THIRTY-ONE**

"Are you OK?" asked the out-of-nowhere physician, as she rushed over to the stairwell doorway.

"Jenn?" Max surprised, as he leaned against the wall, hand on his head. "Yeah, just got a little light-headed. I shouldn't have a problem with that climb, but…"

"It may be a little while yet until your brain and body are in sync on blood oxygen levels during exertion," she explained, feeling his forehead and then checking his pulse. "Why do you think your morning runs got ix-nayed?"

He nodded his understanding and asked, curious and slightly nervous, "What are you doing here? Is the Infirmary tracking me now? A-plus for fast response time, but a little big brother…"

"No," she laughed, relaxing as she determined he wasn't in any medical danger; in fact, his lifetime running regimen had probably kept him from passing out on the stairs as most people in his recovery condition might have done. "Evan swung by as my shift ended this morning, on his way off-world I think, and asked me to meet him here at eight." She leaned in and confided with a guilt grin, "I don't know what's going on, but I hope there's food. I haven't had breakfast yet."

Amused as always by her infectious giddiness, Max smiled and looked around. "Most important meal of the… late evening. I found a note stuck to one of my pictures as I was packing today; he must have put it there as we were cleaning up after dinner last night. It told me to be here too. He accompanied a team off-world today, his first since the accident; so I'll be impressed if he's still awake at this point…" He looked around for any familiar indicators of what might be in the area. "Any ideas about what's on this level?"

"I don't know; I don't think I've ever been here. And I haven't seen any other traffic except us; nobody's come or gone from any of the rooms."

His head having cleared, Max led them back up the corridor, looking for some indication of their host or purpose.

They'd almost completed one lap of the hallway, when Evan came running out of the transporter with a small piece of equipment in his good hand. He brightened and blushed, his face reddening on seeing them already present, and gushed an apology and further explanation. "I'm sorry! I had to track down a battery pack… I'm so glad you both came. Please, come on in…" He waved them through an exterior door and followed them onto the balcony.

As their eyes adjusted to the shift to the outdoor lighting, he squatted just inside the door, fiddling with the box he'd carried, until the vista'd space came alive with color. With an audible "Ooh!" from the good doctor, they saw that, awkwardly draped on the few bumps and crannies in the Lantean architecture, a string of twinkling bulbs added a warm glow, almost mirroring the larger night cityscape. The low bench had been draped with a cloth, and was set with a small assortment of finger food and a bubbling bottle of something. And beyond it all, the sole remaining Lantean moon hung lantern-low on the seemingly close horizon.(1)

As Max shot him a knowing look, the Major stepped between the awestruck pair and led them proudly to the mini-buffet. He introduced the menu as he poured them cups of "Sparkling water—best I could do on short notice… The hardy bread is Athosian; so get used to it. The cheese is by special arrangement with Rose and her mess staff.(2) And these," he indicated the bite-sized, golden fruit, "the locals call 'uhmfra'. They look like kumquats; but taste more like… pineapple."

"All of the sweet and none of the McKay…," Max grinned evilly as he bit into one.

Jennifer punched him lightly in the arm as she made a mini-sandwich. "He's not that bad, Max."

"Someone's protective…," he teased, wiping a little juice from his chin. "And kumquats are only disputably citrus; so they might not be a deterrent anyway…"

"Is he always this mean?" she inquired of their host.

"Vicious," beamed Evan, pleased they both seemed to like the spread, but not partaking in it himself.

"Well this is beautiful, Evan. Like a Pegasus home and garden magazine cover." The Wisconsin native's eyes grew large at the decorator implication she'd unwittingly made; and so she changed the subject quickly. "Are you not eating?" she asked, also suddenly self-conscious that she might be committing a party foul by sampling with too much gusto.

"I'm fine," he assured, motioning them both to continue enjoying.

Max looked at him with a knowing skepticism and confirmed, "You sure, flyboy? You're the one who actually worked all day; Jenn slept, and I packed. Besides, you've gone through all this trouble; and we don't even know what the occasion is." He looked to Jenn, who nodded the same curiosity and concern. "Are you planning to charge us for the antidote?"

He shook his head, and assured them that, "No, nothing like that. I wanted to do this for you both; and I'm happy to see you like it."

Max leaned closer to him, and dropped his voice. "Are you OK? You seem more than excited, nervous almost."

Evan glanced over at Jennifer, who was trying too hard to seem preoccupied with choosing the perfect slice of bread.

Opposite her, Max discretely touched the officer's arm, and raised his eyebrows to emphasize the question.

Evan looked back and forth between his guests, took a deep breath and explained, "Nothing gained, I guess, by waiting any longer."

Jennifer looked over nervously. Max looked worried. Until Evan took his hand and stepped back from the bench toward the railing, so that Jennifer could see them clearly, physically coupled.

Startled, Max tried to pull away gracefully, shooting Evan an alarmed look; but the darker haired man squeezed confidently. "She knows, Prime."

But his partner was not calmed, protesting, "I know she knows; I didn't know you knew she knows."

Evan smiled broadly and interrupted, "Alright, before the Abbott and Costello routine ensues,(3) let's all just acknowledge that Jennifer knows." He turned toward her and confirmed, "Jennifer, Max and I are a couple; and have been for a long, wonderful time." _Happy?_ his expression asked his love.

She stood smiling, cheerfully and awkwardly, with her hands clasped nervously in front of her. She knew she had exclusive front row seats, but still wasn't sure for what.

Max relaxed and even smiled a little, as the veil lifted officially for the first time in this galaxy. Free to, he stepped a little closer beside Evan, and added to the sincerely grateful gaze in which the newest inner circle member was basking.

Evan explained, "She was simply amazing for me when you were hurt; and I get the sense she was the same for you with me. Back home, we have Natalie and Peter, mom and a few other friends with whom we can be fully honest; but I felt it was important that we have at least one person here know—for relief, support and… just in case. So, I invited her here tonight to name that for us all, and to thank her for creating that space to be 'us' here." He raised his glass to her; and Max joined in genuine thanks.

She blushed and sipped her glass, as the host set down his and Max's cups and took both Max's hands in his. "And… As you head off to the mainland, and eventually home again, I also had something else I needed to put on the table, in front of a witness." He looked the puzzled Max squarely in the face as he reminded, "On the roof of your friends' place in the City, after my graduation, when I finally told you how I felt… I was also honest that I had no idea what I expected, or whether or how we'd be able to have or keep something going between us. And yet, here we are. We've spent the last decade winging it—improvising us in spare moments, cryptic notes and stolen glances."

"And we've done well," assured Max.

"But it's not been fair, especially to you. And I get that, more than ever after the past few weeks here." He refreshed his grip on Max's hands, and looked back up, directly into the dark, familiar eyes. "I can't tell you how much it hurts, that all these years in, and we haven't solved that big question; I still don't have any better plan."

Max shook his head to dismiss the disappointment, not entirely liking the tone of the confession, and wishing they had something stronger than club soda handy. He'd rarely seen Evan this gushing, and never in front of someone else. _Maybe I passed out on the staircase after all…_

Evan continued, not breaking eye contact for a moment, but adding a slightly confident smile. "Despite all the hassles and the unknowns, I don't want you to have any doubts about how much you mean to me, how happy I am that you have stuck with me or how truly, madly and deeply I do love you. So, while I still don't have that plan for the _how_ of us, I do have a promise and a request for the _what_..."

In a single fluid motion, he produced a small pile of brightly colored fabric from the pouch of his sling, retook Max's hands and slid down on one knee. "Maximus Joshua Royce…"

Jennifer clamped her hands over her mouth to cover the squeal rising in her throat.

"Ahuvi sheli…," From the tuft of cloth, Evan pulled a bright metal band and held it up to his pale love. "Will you marry me?"

Max's mouth dropped open, stunned still in the twinkle of strandlights, the City and the moon.

"I know we can't really make this happen officially, not yet; and I know it doesn't really change who we can tell or how we live. But I wanted to be crystal clear about my feelings and my commitment, especially if we're going to be light years apart again. We've seen the bad, Max; but I promise that I am in this for good. If you'll have me?"

Waves of flush and chill passed over the linguist's face, as he struggled to find the words, any words, before he finally forced from trembling lips a heartfelt, if whispered, "Yes."

Jennifer jumped up and down in place, clapping and tearing up.

Evan slid the ring on Max's finger, ignored his aching, injured arm as he gently took a glowing if gruff face in both his hands, and planted an eager, public kiss on his… fiancée.

Max felt his own knees buckling; and so focused on the warm strength of his love's ecstatic embrace.

"You guys!" sighed Jenn, running over and wiping her eyes before throwing her arms around them both. "I am sooooo happy for you. And so honored that you let me be a part of this!" Never minding how relatively new their friendships were, she gave them each a big kiss on the cheek, and continued to bounce on her toes. "Do you have a camera? We should've caught this on tape!"

Keeping a reciprocal arm around Max's waist, Evan sighed and admitted, "No. And we couldn't use one anyway."

She looked up from her inspection of the simple ring on Max's hand, not understanding why he doubted their collective photographic skills.

Dabbing at the soldier's damp face with his unaccessorized hand, Max understood and interjected, "All outgoing correspondence and cargo is subject to security inspections by the SGC. If anyone happened to check the data files…"

"Awww," the other civilian stuck out her lower lip on their behalf. "I'm sorry. I promise I won't forget this; and you can ask me to repeat the beautiful story whenever you want." Poking Evan in the ribs, she lamented, "You are quite the romantic; it's a pity I can't let anyone else know about this talent. I hope I can count on some advice when I need to make a good impression."

Still giddy for them, she stepped back to take in the happy couple and pointed out, "This sight would break more than a few hopeful hearts in the Expedition; so maybe it's a good thing, there's no evidence… Although," she backpedaled, looking to Evan, "I hear you're not a bad painter. Perhaps you can recreate the moment on canvas?"

Max smiled at the idea, and squeezed Evan's shoulder in encouragement.

Evan blushed and explained, "I didn't bring any supplies with me; and they really aren't standard military outpost material."

"Another shame," mourned Jennifer, as Max made a mental note. "Well, no photo, no portrait and no telling anyone about tonight—promise." She mimed zipping her lips. "So what I _can _do is thank and congratulate you both again. I really am touched that you let me play some part tonight; I know how much you've both risked to include me. I'm so glad I've gotten to start out my time here with such good fellows; being so far from home, and in such an… amazing place," she looked out over the sparkling city, "It means a lot."

They traded a kiss and hug each, the friendships and confidence sealed with a genuine look and a knowing nod.

Peeling herself away, the quickly becoming third wheel also promised, "For now, I think I'm going to leave you two alone to relish a little 'us' time. Don't be strangers to C-shift, either of you. As _visitors_!" She backed toward the door, grabbing a few uhmfra on the way, and advised with a sly wink, "I won't say behave."

As she stepped to the exit, she noticed that hooked to Evan's earlier discarded device beside the door was a boombox. Looking quickly over her shoulder to see the boys gazing at the ring in the city's sparkle, she decided to take a chance on jumping ahead in Evan's script for the evening.

"Quite the pair, we, huh?" laughed Max back against the railing. He pulled a wavy bang over an eye beginning to shift from swollen to merely discolored.

"Banged up, but never better, even if I don't have a bag of peas to give you," corrected Evan, gently shifting it back, and gazing into the brown eyes amidst the black and blue. "'Sickness and health,' you know."

Speaking of, Max looked back down at the ring, as if confirming the surreal situation. "We'll have to figure how to get this back to Earth and off-base; maybe Rodney could certify it safe…"

"I'd rather we worry about that logistical detail later," Evan interrupted with twinkle in his own eye. "We're wasting starlight."

Behind them, a slow piano melody swelled into the otherwise quiet evening.(4)

Sliding off the sling with only a slight grimace, Evan wrapped his arms around his contentedly smiling groom-to-be. "Dance with me?"

Somehow not surprised at this additional sensory layer to a perfect evening, Max smiled, stepped in and vowed, "Anytime."

Resting cheek to cheek, each felt the familiar tug as his over-the-heart jewelry found the other's. So connected, they lost track of time and space as they swayed in unison amidst the surrounding sparkle.

* * *

**DAY THIRTY-TWO**

"Max, a moment?"

"You're up early this Sunday morning, Dr Weir," he stated blandly, not stopping as she followed him around the corner to the Gate platform. He stood looking at the Ancient's ring, not adoringly, just matter-of-factly.

She noted the return to formal address, but chose not to take it on as she caught up to him and dropped her voice. "Although she'll be here in about a week, I know it may be some time before the _Daedalus_ is able to return to Earth, and that there's no reason for you to come back through the city even then. So I- I just wanted you to know that, Dr Beckett's suggestion notwithstanding, you're welcome anytime."

Smiling politely, he turned in place to face the main staircase and the stained glass window above it, filled with early morning light. "That's very kind of you to say. I think we both know that's not likely. Or advisable."

"Max," she said sincerely, and in hopes of clarifying her stance. "I know we have our differences, and those aren't likely to change. But we have all enjoyed having you here as part of the staff and the community; and your work on the linguistics project continues to move us ahead tremendously. I honestly wish you didn't have to go."

"It's better this way, though isn't it?" he suggested. "I mean a medical pink slip trumps even a generously vague resignation letter; a 'no fault' break-up protects everyone, really."

She shook her head in disappointed disbelief, "You really think this all some grand conspiracy? Despite all the good work we've done together in the past and here too, that I'm really that harsh and heartless?"

He continued to gaze at the architecture before them. "You are what you've had to become here; it's what this place, this job have required of you. And I understand that intellectually; I do. I just don't like it; and I worry for what else it will demand that you do." He sighed as the colors shifted with the steadily rising sun. "I'm actually happy that I won't have to be party to that dangerous, survivalist pragmatism. But a lot of good people here don't get exit passes; they wouldn't take them if offered…"

Before she could even think of something else to say, he turned to her with a genuine smile and asked, "Do you know what the staircase says? Have you ever even noticed the text on it?"

She turned to the Gate's visual counterpoint, and focused on the intricate patterns on the vertical face of each step. They had lit up as Sheppard climbed them on the Expedition's original arrival; and she had walked past them or stepped over them at least daily for nearly two years. But she realized no one had ever considered it was more than decoration despite sitting, glowing under hundreds of sets of feet and eyes.

"It's a love poem," Royce explained, "from the designer, to his or her creation. 'Born of love, built of strength, gift of wisdom' to its occupants and all those they encounter. 'Rise up!' is the refrain," he smiled. "How prophetic."

He shifted his duffle further up his shoulder, and looked over at her with knowing eyes. "Take care of them, Elizabeth. _All_ of them."

_A call to the high road and for a specific soldier especially._ She understood, and nodded so.

He stepped gently up the invocation, nodded smartly to the control room staff, and disappeared up the back stairs to the Jumper Bay as the Gatrium glowed with the full arrival of the morning sun.

* * *

Several levels down, the same sun was finding its way through another set of windows.

Evan slowly came to, exhausted but absolutely happy from the long previous day and magical evening that had led to this glorious morning. The contentment evaporated instantly, however, when he realized that his good arm was wrapped around only a pillow, that he was alone with it in the bed. In the room. And perhaps in the City.

Sitting up in alarm, he grabbed the at-the-ready radio on the bedside table and asked hurriedly, "Control Room, this is Lorne. Has the mainland jumper left yet?"

"Yes, sir; it departed about twenty minutes ago. Is there a problem?"

Evan noticed an odd collection of items conspicuously piled on the floor beside the bed, and smiled with a mix of disappointment and expectation. "No, sergeant; just needed to be sure. Thanks." He set down the earpiece, and slid off the bed to examine his parting gifts.

The stack was topped by a neatly folded blue and white checked shirt, obviously traded for the tee he had worn toward bed last night. The shirt was carefully wrapped around, embracing actually, an elaborate paper airplane. And this pair sat atop the boombox from the night before, whose power indicator glowed in anxious invitation.

Slipping on the fabric embrace, he smiled at the bittersweet scent of him for whose arms it made poor substitute. Tapping the blinking "pause" button on the music machine, he unfolded the courier craft and read the carefully penned but unsigned message, accompanied by one of Max's favorite bands:(5)

_For all my language skills, you know I'm no good at goodbyes; neither of us ever has been. This morning is no different, as I woke to the comforting rise and fall of your breathing, to your familiar touch and tousled hair, and to a slight smile I hope was due to me._

_Beyond you though, a still-strange dawn reminded me that, as truly wondrous as this place is, it is still not enough for us. We have tried two worlds now, two galaxies in fact, without success._

_But I promise that from the mainland here and the deck back home by the Bay, I will continue listening to the sea's roar and looking up into your stars. I will continue dreaming of a world where we can be together, of being with you. I will always look forward to that time, to being in my favorite place._

_Until then, Do good. Be careful. I love you._

_Verily._

* * *

**NOTE****S**

1. The presence of one moon and the suggestion that the accompanying asteroid field may have been a second one, is presented in _First Strike_ (SGA 3.20)

2. Rose Highland, the head of the Atlantis Dining Hall, is introduced in the second of a wonderful series of Sheppard-centric stories by author kwillads here on fanfiction dot net . Search by author to check them out!

3. Another complex wordplay joke, "Who's on first?" is a classic comedy routine by vaudeville duo Abbott and Costello.

4. PLAYLIST: Chris Burke's _Moonlight_ (Bonus Track), from _Chris Burke_, released 27 Sept. 2007.

5. PLAYLIST: Deacon Blue's _Your Swaying Arms_, from _Fellow Hoodlums_, released in February 1991.

* * *

Just a reminder that, in addition to references to on-screen episodes and other information, I have also provided two types of "extras" with this story as footnotes:

*PLAYLIST notes should provide enough information for you locate the referenced song (at iTunes, Amazon or other music provider sites) to hear samples or purchase the tune I had in mind for the particular scene.

*MAP notes indicate a little extra information about referenced locations, all of which and more are marked on a public Google map. If you're interested in seeing some sites where the story is set, add the following URL string to the Google homepage: [slash] maps [slash] ms?&msa=0&msid=109487193454716104055.00045e9b5043b6e47422c

Sorry, GooglePegasus is not yet available; so Earth locales only!

As always, I welcome your constructive feedback on this and all my stories.

_**TBC?**_ Max is still in the Pegasus Galaxy; Rodney's SAWgate would come in handy during the very next episode; and we know Michael will be returning to Atlantis shortly thereafter. Some other WIPs will come first; but I do have a few ideas for connecting to these canon events and following up on Max and Evan; if there's interest… wink


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